


negative space

by lovker



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Art Forgery, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Money laundering, Organized Crime, Violence, art heist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:22:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 40,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29437458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovker/pseuds/lovker
Summary: There are two such paintings in the world. Both of them are fake.
Relationships: Jeon Wonwoo/Kwon Soonyoung | Hoshi
Comments: 66
Kudos: 169





	1. canvas

**Author's Note:**

>   * painting titles, addresses, and company names are fictional
>   * artist names are real
>   * thank you [cee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infrequency) and [rye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobikilledme) for holding my hand through this. u guys are the MVPs 
> 


“Your name?”

“Jeon Wonwoo.”

“Jeon Wonwoo-ssi.” A pause. Pen click, some scribbling. “Your address for contact is?”

“Room 1017, 261-11, Jayang 2-dong, Gwangjin-gu, Seoul.”

“What is your reason for entry?”

“Business.”

“Alright.” A pause, some scribbling. “Can you briefly explain your background and what you do for a living?”

Wonwoo looks up from the piece of paper maimed by rapid scrawling. There’s a video camera beyond the lamp shining in his eyes, red light blinking as it records.

“I specialise in cyber security. CISSP and OSCP,” he says. 

“CSS—pardon?”

“They’re qualifications.”

“Right.” Some more scribbling. “I take that you’re good with computers?”

Wonwoo barks out a laugh. “I’m alright, I guess.”

“How about your job?” A pen click. “What do you do?”

“Security consultant,” Wonwoo begins. He looks away from the lamp, to their hands on the table. “Depends on the client. I try to do what they ask of me.”

“And how about your most recent client?” He squints hard at the dossiers. “Régal Le Coultre—what kind of company is that?”

“Fine art logistics.” Wonwoo rubs his eye. “I helped design and implement the security infrastructure of their private cloud system.”

“Was the project complete?”

“No. It hasn’t gone online yet.”

“Was there any way you think it could be used with malicious intent?”

Wonwoo stares blankly. All he can see is the blinding lamplight and the incessant blinking red dot.

“Let me put it this way, Wonwoo-ssi.” The person’s beginning to get impatient. He spins his pen. “Were you aware of the security compromise on the 15th?”

“I was not,” Wonwoo says. A pause. “My team doesn’t interfere with freight management.”

Wonwoo exits the room an hour later. He was the last to go in. As soon as he’s out, he rummages through the fridge for a cold can of coffee.

The footage is playing on Hansol’s laptop. Wonwoo can hear his own voice filtering out, flat and tinny. He can also hear Seungcheol’s voice, but the camera only managed to capture the back of his head.

_“Right. I take that you’re good with computers?”_

A bark of laughter. Wonwoo winces at the sound. He hadn’t realised his voice was so rough on the ears.

_“I’m alright, I guess.”_

The footage pauses with a slap on the spacebar. Hansol twists around in his seat and looks at him.

“I don’t think you should’ve laughed there, hyung.”

Wonwoo drains the coffee. The hour-long mock interrogation wears him down faster than any code.

“What,” He asks, crushing the can before tossing it into the recycling bin. Score, three points. “ _I take that you’re good with computers—_ what kind of question was that?”

“Some cops do that,” Seungcheol says. He scribbles on the notepad in front of him. “Also, don’t say _‘depends’_. It sounded bad, like you’d do whatever that was asked of you.”

Wonwoo walks closer and peers over their heads. On the screen, the harsh lighting makes his dark circles pronounced to the point of zombification. “Do I not?” 

“Not with Jaeger Le Coultre.” Hansol taps the spacebar. Pixelated Wonwoo begins to move again.

“It’s Régal Le Coultre,” Chan corrects. He crosses his arms. “Jaeger Le Coultre is a wristwatch brand.”

“So, am I supposed to say something else?” Wonwoo asks. A digital replica of his voice plays in the background. “That I help clients maintain security management?”

“That sounds good, and vaguely intimidating,” Seungcheol says. He adds that to the script. “And maybe don’t laugh. Really.”

“I was nervous.”

“Act like you’re nervous, then.” Seungcheol flips to the next page. “Also, Lee Jungchan, keep your answers short. I don’t want them to find us at our galbi soup place one day ‘cause you can’t keep your trap shut.”

“You asked about my day’s activities. I just reported what the script said.”

“The script said you left for the airport by car at 11pm.”

“Maybe my chauffeur drove me to the galbi soup place en route.”

“I’m not your chauffeur,” says Joshua. He uncrosses his legs and stands up from the chair. “Shall we practice again, but in English?”

“Don’t they speak French here? Or German?”

“Both.” Joshua sighs. “Are you saying you can speak either?”

“We don’t have to speak _any_ of them if we don’t get caught,” says Chan, smile confident to the point of vain. 

##  **Modigliani painting stolen in transit**

Updated: 9 hours ago

A painting by Italian artist Amedeo Clemente Modigliani, worth over $40m (£28m), has been stolen en route to an exhibition at New York’s Nuova Galleria, the museum has revealed.

“Nude Standing on the Balcony” vanished three days ago while being transported from Switzerland’s Museum of Contemporary Art Zurich, which acquired the work in 1963.

At the time of the theft, which occurred near the Zurich Airport, the picture was in the hands of a professional art transporter, according to the museum.

The image of a woman in the nude, completed in 1917, was insured for about $30m. It was to be exhibited with paintings by Italian masters as part of the Nuova Galleria’s Italian Futurism show, which is scheduled to open in a week’s time.

Other paintings on display include 115 works by artists such as Francesco Clemente, Gino Severini, Giacomo Balla, Carlo Carrà, Umberto Boccioni and Luigi Russolo. 

Most of the time, Wonwoo doesn’t have much to do except for wiring funds from their art dealer to overseas accounts. Stealing paintings has mostly been a physical task through the years.

It should continue to be. He isn’t a fan of field work.

Sometimes, if it’s tricky, he creates an opening for his team to get through or deactivate a few sensors. This time though, the only contribution Wonwoo’s made so far is unwiring the emergency exit from the fire alarm control panel. 

It helps that the museum’s been having financial difficulties. Half of the motion detectors are permanently stuck on green. Its night watchmen are unlikely to risk their necks to protect an old canvas, either. At least not for minimum wage. 

“It’s like they’re begging us to take it,” Hansol says, slamming the car door closed. Chan enters through the other side, bringing a shock of cold air with him. He takes off the ski mask and rests the rolled up painting on the seat next to him.

“Did you slice the painting?” Joshua asks, glancing at them through the rearview mirror. He pulls out of the alley, and only turns on the headlights when they merge onto the main road.

“No. Took off the staples,” Chan says.

“Good job,” Joshua dishes out. They speed along the road.

In 25 minutes, they find the underground garage and go down to the fourth level. There’s an unsuspecting Porsche Cayenne parked at the far end, and a Boo Seungkwan leaning against the hood of the car.

From the backseat, Chan scoffs. “Another new toy?”

Wonwoo shoots a text to Seungcheol. “It’s probably rented.”

“Knew it,” Chan snides. “Cheap fuck.”

The car they’re using is also rented, but Wonwoo mentions none of that. He gets out with the painting and walks towards Seungkwan.

“Hello,” Seungkwan says, rounding to the front of his car. He keeps both hands in his coat pockets. “Nice seeing you here.”

“Long time no see,” Wonwoo says.

It’s been half a year since their last meeting, three months since their last interaction in the form of a bank transaction.

“How have you been?” Seungkwan says, waving at their car. Wonwoo rests the painting on the hood of the Porsche. “Looking busy. The Modigliani last week was you guys, wasn’t it?”

Wonwoo doesn’t entertain him with an answer. He unrolls the Léger. It stares back at him in vibrant colours, in curved and straight bold lines.

It looks even better in person.

“The painting was removed from the stretching bars intact,” Wonwoo says, trying to leverage for a higher price. First impressions matter, whether the subject be dead or alive. “No slashing.”

“As it should be,” Seungkwan says, peering over the canvas. He glances at their car with a hum, mouth curling into a smile when a middle finger sticks out from one of the backseat windows. “Our Channie’s meticulous as always.”

Wonwoo rolls up the painting. He nods at the trunk in the front, which Seungkwan pops open with a click of his car keys. 

“You better find a bigger car next time,” Wonwoo suggests as he slams the trunk closed. Seungkwan cocks his head. “The Léger could only just fit, and it’s not that big to begin with.”

“But I won’t look as good driving it,” Seungkwan complains. He pulls open the driver side’s door and gets in. “Anyway, you guys available in March?”

“Depends,” Wonwoo says.

The door slams shut. Seungkwan rolls down the window.

“Well, if you are,” he says. He smiles at their car again. “Tell them there _might_ be a job in New York.” He pauses. “ _Might_.”

“I will.”

The growl of the Porsche’s engine reverberates through the space. Seungkwan goes, not without blowing a kiss towards their car first. Wonwoo stares until the tail lights disappear around the corner.

They wait fifteen minutes before making their way out. Wonwoo turns up the heating, taking off his gloves so he could put his hands right in the path of warm air. 

He should’ve known a single parka was barely enough for ski season in Switzerland.

“Have you told him his car looks stupid?” Chan breaks the silence.

It’s one AM. Wonwoo rubs his face before shooting another text to Seungcheol, telling him they’re on their way back. 

They cross the border to France eventually. Nobody even thinks to slow them down, preoccupied with too many tourists filing in and out for Swiss ski resorts.

“Go tell him yourself.”

The painting’s sold to a Russian oligarch for US$3.1 million, a tenth of the price of another Léger auctioned at Christie’s.

Wonwoo receives the payment a month later.

Part of it goes to Boo Seungkwan as commission, another part of it goes to the costs of the operation itself. What’s left they split among the seven of them. It’s probably enough to keep them afloat for a few months and some.

“Did you hear back from Boo Seungkwan?” Jihoon asks.

“New York, pre-auction exhibition of a private collection,” Seungcheol says. He’s flipping through a comprehensive catalogue, nearing the end of the book. “There are a few Oskar Molls, according to him.”

“Who’s that,” Hansol asks.

“Expressionist?” Jihoon says. “Maybe second-tier expressionist.”

“How much are they?”

“There’s quite a range.” Jihoon tilts his head. “From a few hundred US to a hundred thousand, depending on the size.”

“A hundred thousand US?” Chan bristles. “Did Boo Seungkwan _really_ think we’d fly all the way to the US for that?”

“There’s also a Max Ernst, apparently,” Seungcheol says. He shuts the heavy book with a thump. “Recently included in the catalogue, recovered in Germany, sold in last year’s autumn auctions at Sotheby’s.”

There’s a low whistle. Mingyu places a steaming pan of bulgogi in the middle of their meeting-cum-dining table.

“That’s more promising,” Mingyu says, taking off the pink apron and heat proof gloves. “Who wants rice?”

“Me,” Jihoon says.

“Wait,” Hansol says. He glances around the table. “I think we should vote first. Who’s down?”

“Down for what?”

“Oskar Moll, Max Ernst,” Hansol counts off. He collects all their bowls anyway. “Whatever there is in New York.”

“Let’s vote,” Seungcheol decides. “Main focus is on the Max Ernst. And if we can afford it, a few more smaller paintings.”

“Does Seungkwan have buyers lined up?” Joshua says. He looks up from the colourful beads on the table, which he’s mixing and matching to make friendship bracelets for them. “Don’t take paintings we can’t unload.”

“Yup,” Seungcheol says. “Alright, let’s vote in three, two, one. Who’s down?”

For New York, they’ve decided to let Hansol—who insists they should start calling him Vernon, just so he can get used to being called that—and Joshua take the lead in planning.

“It helps that we have locals on our team,” Mingyu says, checking himself out in the mirror. He straightens up and pushes out his chest.

“I’m from LA,” Joshua says. He secures the wire in the lapel of his blazer.

“Well, Han—Vernon, then.”

“I’ve literally not been back since I was five,” Hansol says. He fixes his tie in the mirror, then rolls his shoulders. “God, I feel weird. Why did I plan this?”

“You look fine,” Mingyu says. He nudges him. “C’mon. Chin up, chest out. Like me.”

“My tits look huge in this shirt,” Hansol notes.

“They’ll love it,” Mingyu reassures. He coiffes his own hair once more. “I promise. I’ve seen plenty.”

They arrive at an old building in Manhattan. They show the passports they used to book their appointments, then they’re let in.

Wonwoo’s wearing an amalgamation of clothes: Mingyu’s rolex, Seungcheol’s coat, his own suit and dress shoes. 

He leaves the coat at the cloakroom and makes his way up the stairs, feeling distinctly out of place, like the weight on his wrist of the watch that isn’t his.

There are motion detectors and cameras on the ceiling. Four exits, with three that connect this room to the next few. No windows.

A stain on the ceiling. Floorboards warped, but hidden under a thick carpet. 

The climate control here is bad. The gallery’s broke as shit.

He waves at the motion sensor pointing at an Oskar Moll still life. The light stays green.

Wonwoo blows out a breath. He looks around and sees Mingyu fitting right in, Hansol acting the role of a rich kid who wants to introduce his Korean friend to western contemporary art. An old geezer, most likely with an asian fetish, leans past Hansol’s attempts at translating what he said and speaks right into Mingyu’s ear. 

Mingyu laughs. Hansol smiles. Joshua’s looking very closely at a painting, probably at the frame and how to best deconstruct it.

And finally, he stops in front of the fabled Max Ernst. It’s a painting of strange leaves. Wonwoo stares at it, tries to look for what Jihoon described to be a result of _“putting seashells under the canvas”_ in the blocks of colour.

Wonwoo can find that, but fails to feel anything. Maybe he’s just uncultured.

“It’s beautiful,” someone next to him says in accented English.

Wonwoo looks over and sees a guy looking at the same painting. He puts his eyes back on the art and hums.

“It is,” he says.

They stare at the canvas in silence. Wonwoo feels nothing but an urge to leave.

Maybe that’s an intended effect of the painting. Wonwoo’s none the wiser.

The guy next to him speaks again. “Do you by any chance speak Korean?”

Wonwoo blinks once, then twice. He turns his head to really look, now, and realises the guy seems about the same age as him, about half a head shorter.

“I do.” He switches to Korean, “How do you know?”

The guy shrugs, tilting his head. His face is a combination of sharp and soft as he smiles. “It was a guess,” he says back in Korean with a playful lilt to his voice. “Just a feeling.”

“I see,” Wonwoo says. 

They move onto the next painting together. It’s yet another impressionist painting, adhering to the theme of 20th and 21th century contemporary art.

He perceives it with a glance and finds nothing worth dwelling on, so he inspects the man in front of him.

His hair curls at the ends, like the relief on the wooden frame, shining under the lights of the installation. Wonwoo can see the curvature of his nape before it disappears under the turtleneck.

“You like art?” The guy asks, one corner of his mouth lifted.

Wonwoo doesn’t bother to look away. If he’s caught staring, and if this guy’s still initiating conversation, maybe it’s less one-sided than he thinks.

“Can’t say I do,” Wonwoo says.

“Thank god.” The guy laughs. He leans close and stage whispers, “Me neither. My friend dragged me here.”

“Same,” Wonwoo returns with a smile.

The guy keeps on laughing, quiet in a way that seems to be confined between the two of them and the painting. Wonwoo wants to ask what’s so funny, but it’s not like he’s smiling for a reason either.

“Well then,” the guy finally says, laughter still clinging to his edges in the form of a smile. They move onto the next painting, but neither of them are looking at it. “In that case, do you wanna get out of here?”

Wonwoo studies him again, only to find they’re standing much closer than he remembers. 

“To where?” 

“How about lunch?” The guy says, looking up at him with a twinkle in his eyes. “I know a good place if you’re up for burgers.”

They go get their coats without telling their friends. Wonwoo wonders what the other end of the wire thinks of this conversation; who’s listening to him. Maybe Jihoon? Or Chan?

His phone isn’t ringing right now, so it seems he’s not breaching any major code of conduct by stepping out of the gallery.

He finds himself sitting opposite to the guy at an upscale steakhouse. They sit outdoors, with a patio heater that glows red-orange above their heads. The wait staff offers them throw blankets, and Wonwoo doesn’t hesitate to wrap one around himself.

“I don’t think I’ve introduced myself yet,” the guy says. “I’m Soonyoung.”

“Soonyoung-ssi,” Wonwoo tries it out. “Wonwoo.”

“Nice to meet you,” Soonyoung says, making eye contact with a wait staff for their attention. They order two burgers, as per his recommendation. When his focus goes back to Wonwoo, he smiles. “Looking cozy there.”

“It is,” Wonwoo says. His hands are still cold. “You should try.”

“I like the cold,” Soonyoung says. He takes off his coat and rests it on the chair beside him. “It was kinda stuffy inside the gallery, don’t you think?”

“It was,” Wonwoo says. He doesn’t have much to say. Instead, he’s more interested in watching Soonyoung study the drinks menu. “Drinking at lunch?”

“I’m looking at the juices, actually.” Soonyoung chuckles. He glances over the top of the fancy wooden cover, squinting. “Are _you_ drinking at lunch?”

Wonwoo tugs at his sleeves. “Wine and burger?”

“Red wine does go well with beef.” Soonyoung pushes the menu aside. “But I agree. Burger’s not complete without coke.”

Their lunches arrive on slabs of granite. Soonyoung rolls up his sleeves and digs in, taking a bite right out of the burger. The medium rare patty oozes pink juices, dripping past his fingers.

Wonwoo chews on a potato wedge. He watches.

“God,” Soonyoung moans around a mouthful. He takes another bite. “This is so good.”

It sounds downright orgasmic. Wonwoo’s curious as to what makes it so good. He wraps a napkin around the burger and takes a bite, big enough to reach the meat of it.

After a few thoughtful seconds, he says, “It’s good.”

Soonyoung’s face lights up. He swallows down a big bite and sips from the heavy glass.

“Right?” He says, eyes curving from a smile. He pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, gaze pinned on Wonwoo. “So, if you don’t mind me asking…”

Wonwoo feels the need to shift in his seat. What he does, though, is take another bite and lean back, tilting his head. “Yes?”

“How old are you?”

He licks his lips, tasting salt and pepper. Soonyoung’s eyes catch onto the movement, flicking downwards.

“I’m born in ‘96,” Wonwoo says. “You?”

“No way.” Soonyoung’s eyes go wide, clear of the darkness a second ago. “Me too.”

Wonwoo takes another bite. He swallows. “You don’t look that old.”

Soonyoung looks up from his burger. He raises an eyebrow, eyes drifting from Wonwoo’s face, downwards, to his hands, then back up.

“You don’t look that bad for your age, either,” he says.

“You talk like we’re middle-aged,” Wonwoo says.

“Middle-aged is relative to how long you end up living,” Soonyoung quips.

“And how long do you think you’ll end up with?” 

“I tend not to think,” Soonyoung answers easily. He clears off the last bite, licking his fingertips. “Just wanna live.”

Wonwoo entertains him. “Sounds like a good plan.”

“It is,” Soonyoung says, mouth ticking up on the right. “You should try it sometime.”

“Maybe,” Wonwoo says. He’s only making progress through one half of the burger, but Soonyoung seems to be in no rush, propping up his chin on a hand across the table. The silver rings on his fingers glint under the sun. “It’s rewarding to see the goals you set out come to existence, though.”

“Ah, I see,” Soonyoung says, cheek mushed against his palm. “What do you do?”

“Like my work?”

“Mhm.” Soonyoung’s grin turns sharp. “Though if you wanna tell me what you _do_ in the other sense, I wouldn’t mind either.”

Wonwoo huffs, feeling the corners of his mouth lifting. He keeps his gaze on the remaining bite of the burger, pink and raw in his hands.

Soonyoung’s easy to read, in this sense. Wonwoo wonders what the other end of the wire thinks of where their conversation’s heading.

“Do you do this often, Soonyoung-ssi?” He says, finally lifting his eyes.

“Do what?” Soonyoung holds his gaze.

“Flirt with strangers.” Wonwoo wipes his fingers with the napkin on his lap.

“Only the ones I find interesting,” Soonyoung says. “And I’m literally trying not to be strangers with you here, Wonwoo-yah.”

That’s fast. 

Wonwoo licks his teeth, sitting back in his chair. A grey pigeon lands not too far from their table, pecking at invisible crumbs on the ground.

“I work in IT,” he says at last.

At some point, Soonyoung has closed his eyes. He opens them now and blinks once, slowly.

“Ah,” he says. “One of those Silicon Valley people?”

“Hate to disappoint, but no.” Wonwoo chuckles. “Just your run-of-the-mill IT guy.”

“That’s sexy,” Soonyoung says, a dreamy tone in his voice. He drums his fingers on the table top. “I don’t get along with computers.”

“Many people don’t,” Wonwoo says. “What do you do?”

“Me?” Soonyoung hums. “I work in film.”

Makes sense. He has the face for it. Wonwoo raises his eyebrows. “Should I recognise you from somewhere?”

It’s Soonyoung’s turn to be bashful. “Ah, no. Nothing that big,” he says. “I just dabble, here and there.”

“Behind the scenes?”

“Something like that,” Soonyoung says. 

He seems hellbent on keeping it vague, so Wonwoo decides not to push it. 

They end up having ice cream for dessert. Soonyoung chooses strawberry, and Wonwoo chocolate. It’s two PM before they leave after Soonyoung foots the bill.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Wonwoo says.

They’re walking along the waterside back towards the gallery. Wonwoo has to nudge Soonyoung aside as a cyclist whizzes past them.

Soonyoung says nothing about the hand on his lower back, except for a glance that says too much. Wonwoo retracts it.

“How about you treat me to dinner.” Soonyoung stops and turns towards him. The wind dances around his face, in his hair. “After the auction?”

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “Two days,” he says. “Won’t you miss me?”

Amusement colours Soonyoung’s face. He leans in closer. “Do you do this often, Wonwoo-ssi?”

“Do what?”

“Flirt with strangers,” Soonyoung murmurs.

Wonwoo watches Soonyoung pull away from his space, from his shadow, into the sun. 

It’s Wonwoo’s turn to lean in now. “I’d consider us more than strangers now, Soonyoung-ah.”

Up close, he can see the two silver hoops clinging onto Soonyoung’s left ear lobe, where the shell of it is dusted pink. It’s satisfying to see his effect on a spoiled rich kid who doesn’t lack people to bring to bed. 

“Well,” Soonyoung says through a blush. He tugs at the collar of his turtleneck, revealing another splash of colour. “Are you going?”

“I’d like to,” Wonwoo says. He stuffs his hands into his coat pockets. “But I came here for business. Guess we’ll see.”

“Hope whatever meeting you have cancels last minute,” Soonyoung says with a pout. “Or that it goes smoothly so you’re let off early.”

He’s cute, Wonwoo will give him that.

Before he manages a response, someone calls from afar, “Hyung!”

Soonyoung whips his head around. He waves at a guy, presumably his friend, who walks towards them. 

“Hyung,” the guy says. He seems to have a perpetual smiling face, softening his angular features. “Where have you been? We thought you got lost.”

“You were taking way too long.” Soonyoung glances at Wonwoo. “We had lunch.”

“Oh, right,” the guy says. He bows at Wonwoo with a wide smile. “Nice to meet you.”

Wonwoo bows back. “Nice to meet you.”

The guy takes one last glance between them and walks away. Soonyoung turns back to face him.

“I better get going,” Soonyoung says, squinting against the sun. He lifts a hand to shield his eyes. “If you’d like to meet me again, you know where.”

Then he steps back, tracing his friend’s steps down the other end of the street, walking backwards.

Wonwoo smiles and waves.

At two AM, Jihoon’s the only one at the living room with him in their temporary place in New York. He’s keeping track of the flow in the art market, cataloguing auctioned pieces and private trades.

The place is quiet, the loudest noise being Wonwoo’s pen on paper and the clicking of Jihoon’s keyboard.

“You gave him your real name, huh?” Jihoon mutters. He reaches for the coffee behind his laptop screen. 

So it’s been Jihoon who was listening to him.

Wonwoo draws the four exits. “He did it first.”

“What are you—twelve?” He backspaces. “You did it too. Just because he spoke a few words of Korean.”

“He _is_ Korean,” Wonwoo says. He pauses in drawing out the memorised floor plan of the gallery. “Plus, there are thousands of Wonwoo’s in Korea.”

Jihoon snorts. He looks away from his screen. “And there aren’t thousands of Soonyoung’s?” 

“Among trust fund kids who spend their time meddling with film?” Wonwoo looks back down at the floor plan. He labels the Oskar Molls and the Max Ernst. “Probably not.”

Jihoon turns back, typing in yet another string of numbers.

“Careful,” he says. “Don’t want a scorned lover to be our downfall.”

Wonwoo scoffs. “You’re being ridiculous.”.

They don’t say anything after that, working towards completing their plan.

14 hours before the auction, Wonwoo cuts the wires connecting the cameras to the external storage. Chan and Hansol use a telescopic ladder and climb up to one of the skylights, where they enter the building and proceed according to plan. 

13 hours and 37 minutes before the auction, Chan is unscrewing the fourth Oskar Moll from its frame while Hansol lays the paintings face down onto silicone release paper, topping them with thin foam sheets. Joshua works on the Max Ernst. Wonwoo makes sure there’s no cloud backup of the CCTV footage. He finds the hard drive from last month and begins cloning.

13 hours and 13 minutes before the auction, all six Oskar Molls and the one Max Ernst painting are rolled up. Chan and Hansol have exited the building with them. Joshua stays back. Wonwoo connects the cloned hard drive to the external storage. He puts the original in his jacket.

12 hours 58 minutes before the auction, they go back to their place and pack up. Wonwoo wipes the hard drive and puts on safety goggles, courtesy to Mingyu’s continuous nagging. He drives a few holes through the platter with a powered screwdriver.

11 hours and 3 minutes before the auction, they meet up with Seungkwan and hand over the paintings. 

10 hours and 33 minutes before the auction, Seungcheol stops by an electronics store so Wonwoo could drop off the hard drive for recycling, because he loves the planet.

10 hours and 2 minutes before the auction, they check in at the airport and get their boarding passes. 

9 hours and 3 minutes before the auction, their flight takes off. Wonwoo puts on a pair of ear plugs and goes to sleep.

3 hours after the supposed time of auction, Wonwoo wakes up to in-flight breakfast. He chooses rice porridge.

5 hours after the supposed time of auction, Wonwoo switches sim cards while waiting for their luggage. As his phone gets service and cellular data, he sees the news.

He doesn’t find a face that matches the name Soonyoung among the socialites.

****

## **Seven masterpieces stolen from New York gallery**

Updated: 2 days ago

Seven paintings by Max Ernst and Oskar Moll have been stolen from the New Gallery in Manhattan, according to New York officials.

The paintings are estimated to be worth just under $50m.

They were taken overnight on Wednesday and reported missing early on Thursday, officials say.

The gallery, a stone’s throw from the Chelsea Piers across the 11th Avenue, has been cordoned off by investigators.

Security camera footage was unable to capture the event.

They receive their funds a month later and hear nothing else from Boo Seungkwan.

“It’s the lack of job,” Chan complains, like he doesn’t seek to strangle the other every time he sets eyes on him. 

“Lack of _physical_ job,” Wonwoo says.

Jihoon tipped him off on a sales deal. As a result, Wonwoo’s been keeping track of a three-month long email negotiation between a Dutch museum director and a London dealer. 

“You’re still on that Constable painting?” Chan asks, peering at his computer screen. “ _A view of Flatford Mill: scene on a navigable river, harrow in the distance—_ why the hell is the title so long?”

“No idea.” Wonwoo checks his drafted email, posing as the London art dealer who changed his bank account details, but his English is wonky at best. “Shua-hyung, can you take a look at this?”

“What?” Joshua asks, fresh off training.

“I wrote an email in English,” he says. “Can you check?”

“Let’s see,” Joshua says, padding over with a bottle of water in hand. As he scans the text, he mutters the words under his breath. “It looks fine. Are you sure it’ll work?”

“I’m counting on that buyer to be an idiot,” Wonwoo says. He sends out the email. “I’ll try something else if it doesn’t work.”

“What time is it in the Netherlands?”

“About seven AM.”

Joshua pats his shoulder. “Hope that guy’s efficient.”

“Their emails went on for three months before this.” Wonwoo minimises the window. Now, all he has to do is to check their Hong Kong bank account regularly. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Do you think he’s capable of that?”

Joshua laughs. He uncaps the bottle and takes a swig. “Maybe not—”

_Knock knock._

They look at the door. Hansol’s rainbow converses lie in the hallway.

_Knock knock knock._

“Did Kim Mingyu forget his keys again?” Chan walks out from the kitchen, wiping his hand on his sweatpants. He yanks the door open. “I swear to god, hyung—”

It’s not Mingyu, definitely. Wonwoo can’t see beyond hand’s reach, but he’s sure the voice isn’t Mingyu’s.

“You motherfucking—son of a fucking bitch,” the person says. Wonwoo slips on his glasses with semi-urgency and sees Chan crashing into the shoe shelf, Seungkwan grabbing him by the collar. “It was a fake, you fucking son of a _bitch_ —”

It’s not the first time he sees Chan doing a shoulder throw, but it’s the first time he sees it in their apartment.

Chan tackles Seungkwan onto the ground with a thump. Wonwoo winces, concerned with the possibility of a noise complaint. Joshua’s stuck between interfering and letting it resolve by itself.

It doesn’t seem to be happening soon.

Seungkwan’s just as unpredictable as any untrained person, which is his greatest advantage. Hair pulling, biting, eye gouging—you name it, Wonwoo’s seeing it right in front of his eyes.

“Get the fuck off me,” Chan yells. 

Wonwoo silently shuts the lid of his laptop. He gets up and brings it to his room.

Some fifteen minutes later, when their ruckus disturbs Hansol even through his thumping music, he’s forced to break up the fight. 

They sit in the living room, placing as many of them as possible between Seungkwan and Chan. 

Which isn’t a lot.

“A fight,” Seungcheol says, unamused to the point of sounding bored. He puts away his haul from the grocery trip with Mingyu. “How old are you again?”

“You should be glad,” Chan snaps, nursing his black eye with an ice pack. “I was cutting apples right as he knocked, and I put down the knife _just_ before opening the door—”

“Why, thank you _so_ much for not stabbing me,” Seungkwan smarts. He dabs a tissue on his bottom lip, which comes back bloody. “It’s not like I’m _not_ being threatened ever since that Max Ernst—that fucking _fake_ got sold.”

“What does a dealer like _you_ have to be threatened over?” Chan scoffs. “Not paying rent for your sports car—”

Seungkwan lunges at him again, and Joshua’s more than ready to drag him back by a half-nelson.

“Fuck you,” he spits, which inevitably ends up in Mingyu’s face when he stands between them. “Everywhere I go—Monaco, Singapore, Hong Kong, France—he’s there, waiting to twist my head off like I’m a fucking Lego man.”

Chan clearly hasn’t learned his lesson. “Why does that make you sound important or something?”

“Lee Jungchan,” Seungcheol warns.

“I don’t know, alright?” Seungkwan begins. The fight drains out of him abruptly, and he drops back down onto the chair. He grabs another tissue and presses it to his mouth. “He can’t sue me, so he clearly wants me dead.”

“That doesn’t make the painting any more real,” Jihoon says in passing on his way to the kitchen.

“My thought exactly!” Seungkwan holds up a hand for a high five, which Jihoon ignores.

“Who thought of authenticating it again?” Jihoon asks. “Wasn’t it certified before?”

“It was. The auction house in New York did it.” He leans forward, coiled with tension. “Back then I sold it to my client, his expert friends all agreed it was genuine as well—Max Ernst’s widow _herself_ had said it was his most beautiful work—so he hadn’t asked for more. Nothing.” He blows out a breath, hands shaking. “But a month ago he brought it to a bank as a collateral.”

Jihoon grimaces into his coffee. “And the bank wanted a new certificate?” 

“Right.” Seungkwan says. He looks down at his hands. Hansol helpfully brings him a glass of water for the fright. “The thing is—the bank didn’t do the authentication. They hired someone else to appraise it and do a lab analysis.”

Jihoon’s eyebrows shoot up. “Who?”

“I don’t know. Some nobody. Definitely not the catalogue guy.”

“How?” Jihoon asks. “Provenance? Spectrometry? Carbon dating? X-ray fluorescence?”

“I don’t know.” 

Jihoon breathes out through his nose. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I got the letter at my new address!” Seungkwan grips Jihoon by the shoulders. His voice breaks. “I moved in just a week ago. There were fucking—blood stained razors in the envelope, hyung.”

“What did the letter say?” Hansol asks.

“Did you expect me to—” Seungkwan takes a deep breath. “Did you expect me to sit around and read a fucking letter when they’re out to get me?”

Chan clicks his tongue. “Can you calm down? They’re just razors.”

“Fuck calm down,” Seungkwan snaps.

“We did our job,” Chan says, deliberate and clear. “You asked for a painting. We lifted that exact painting.”

Seungkwan grabs Chan by the collar again. Nobody tries to stop him this time.

“They’re gangsters, Lee Jungchan,” Seungkwan hisses. “Do you think they’ll stop there?” Chan’s jaw twitches. “Do you think they _care_ who you are?”

“Let go of me,” Chan grits out. He grabs Seungkwan’s wrist and twists it.

Seungkwan pushes him away with a huff. The chair behind Chan topples over from the force.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Seungkwan dusts off his coat, making his way to the door. With one hand on the doorknob, he says, “If we go down, we go down together.”

****

## **Valuable works lost in Manhattan art gallery ‘arson’**

Updated: 1 day ago

A fire which gutted an art gallery is being treated as arson, the fire service has said.

A number of works, ranging from the post-impressionism to abstract expressionism period, went up in flames that spread through the New Gallery on West 23rd Street in Manhattan at about 01:00 EST on Friday.

The New York City Fire Department said the blaze was “thought to be suspicious”.

A spokesman said there were no injuries or casualties.

“Seungkwan’s client,” Jihoon says by the way of greeting, tossing a wad of newspaper onto the dining table.

Chan wrinkles his nose. “How do you know?”

“He told me.”

“Wow,” Hansol says, putting down his phone. “Do physical newspapers even exist nowadays?”

“Of course they do,” Seungcheol says. He scans the English headline. “How else do you think I pick up Kkuma’s poop?”

“I use plastic bags,” says Mingyu from the kitchen.

Joshua peers over Seungcheol’s shoulder. He scans a few lines and loses interest. 

“Sounds like a tantrum,” Joshua says, walking away. “A multi-million one. How much was he gonna take out from the bank anyway?”

“No idea.” Jihoon snorts at the paper. “You’d think they’d blow money like that fast enough to not care about a fake drawing.”

A scoff. “Told you. Boo Seungkwan’s being dramatic.”

“Well.” Seungcheol puts down the newspaper. “A few million is still a lot. And Seungkwan does account for a big part of our jobs.”

Chan ponders on the words. His face falls when the implication sinks in. “We’re _not_ cleaning up after him.”

“Do you have a better dealer?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Chan,” Joshua says. He rounds Chan’s seat and leans down until they’re face to face, trapping him there. The smile on his face slides off. “Remember your first job?”

Despite how capable Chan is now, he was the same as any other rookie—fingerprints, blood, hair, unsalable paintings.

Chan says nothing, frozen. Joshua deems the message successfully delivered and straightens up. He wears the smile anew. “Sometimes it’s not just about the immediate cost.”

The funds from a Dutch bank account funnel through at KST one AM. Wonwoo pulls an all-nighter moving them to foreign accounts in structured transactions. He layers them a few more times to make sure the money’s clear of audit trails.

Only then does he go to sleep.

Peace isn’t long lived. Someone opens his bedroom door without knocking. “Wake up. The analysis report is here.”

Wonwoo pats around for his glasses with a groan. By the time he gets out of the blanket, there’s a party of eight in the living room. The blood stained razors rest in an empty ashtray.

“It’s pig blood,” Chan comments, looking closely. “Probably.”

Seungkwan ignores him.

Jihoon looks up from the report. He says, “It’s a chip analysis.”

Wonwoo rubs his eyes. He sits down at the end of the sofa, yawning. “Carbon dating?”

“No. It’d be too recent to show up as anything.” Jihoon lowers the wad of paper. “They found titanium white by spectroscopy, though.”

Hansol frowns. “Was there not supposed to be white?”

“Not _titanium_ white, at least,” Jihoon says. “It’s a pigment invented in 1957. The painting was supposed to be from the 1920s.”

“Woah,” Hansol says.

“Yeah.”

“Who owned the painting before?”

“No idea.” Jihoon looks at his spreadsheet. “It was kept in the dark up till this point.”

Wonwoo stares at the bloodied razors. “It was supposed to be auctioned on the day we left New York.”

“Private auction?”

“Yes.” Wonwoo gets up for coffee. “If it’s up for sale, there must be some documentation.”

“Do you need to fly out for this?” Seungcheol asks. 

“Hope not,” Wonwoo says. He takes a can of red bull while the coffee brews. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The ownership’s found in an email exchange. There is no certificate, since the painting was apparently brought back from Germany to Japan in the 1950s by a tycoon. The attachment sent to the auction house is instead conveniently labelled: _Supporting Documents._

“Let’s see,” Jihoon says, settling beside Wonwoo with coffee. They read the pdf of scanned pages: an old label of the private collection; exhibition catalogues in various languages; invoices to a few renowned art collectors.

“Yasuno Seiichiro?” Seungcheol has joined reading at some point. He searches up on his phone. “As in _the_ Yasuno of that Yasuno Group?”

“Seems like it.” Wonwoo scrolls to the next page. It’s his will, detailing the distribution of property. The painting goes to someone with a different surname. A child with a mistress, probably. “Weren’t there court cases between his grandchildren over the inheritance still?”

Seungcheol whistles. He gets up. “It’s gonna make news.”

A few more pages later, they reach the end of the document. A yellowed scanned photo shows Yasuno Seiichiro’s illegitimate son sitting next to the Max Ernst painting.

Wonwoo stops.

It’s Soonyoung’s face. 

Slightly out of focus, grainy in black and white, but still: Soonyoung’s face.

Soonyoung stares through the screen with a blank expression, hair slicked back. He sits stiffly on a chair. There’s a vase of flowers and a rotary dial telephone on a table that’s covered with a lace tablecloth.

“This is Soonyoung,” Wonwoo says.

Jihoon glances at him. “What?”

“This is Soonyoung,” he repeats. “The guy I met in New York.” 

“You’re saying you met Yasuno’s son in New York and had _lunch_ with him?”

Wonwoo rubs his temples. “Yes.”

“And you didn’t think of mentioning this in the debriefing?” Chan asks.

“Am I supposed to know every person who’s slightly rich by face?”

“Shouldn’t he already be in his eighties?” Mingyu muses.

“Maybe he has a son or a grandson who uncannily resembles him. Or—” Wonwoo puts on his glasses “—the photo could be fake.”

“Just like anything related to this painting,” says Hansol. “Fuck.”

A few seconds lapse in heavy silence. They all stare at Wonwoo’s laptop screen in the middle of their dining table. Soonyoung’s face stares back. 

Jihoon speaks first. “The gallery’s filing for insurance, by the way.”

“They still think it’s lost?” Mingyu asks.

“It _is_ lost.”

“But nobody said anything about it being fake?”

“No. Seungkwan’s client commissioned it to be stolen.” Jihoon says. “If he lets on, he’ll be done for.”

“Under the radar it is.”

“As under the radar as arson can be,” Chan says. He sighs. “Men’s pride is so easily wounded.”

“You’re a man too.”

Seungcheol hasn’t moved from his spot beside Wonwoo. He’s still staring at the photo.

“Assuming this is fake,” he says. Wonwoo can only just discern the words from the conversation in the background. He leans closer, and Seungcheol mutters the rest into his ear, “Can you get a hold of him?”

Assuming the socialite front is fake, Wonwoo expands the scope of his search to the whole of South Korea. There are many Soonyoung’s and many SNS profiles with faces for Wonwoo to look through, which is beyond tedious. Then Wonwoo remembers Soonyoung talking about film, and that he and his friend spoke standard Korean without much of an accent.

Wonwoo calls an old friend.

The line picks up after a few rings. _“Hello?”_

“Hey, Changkyun-ah.” He says. The bass of a dance track transmits through the other end. “It’s Wonwoo.”

_“Oh hey,”_ Changkyun says. The music fades. It sounds like he stepped out of wherever he was. _“What’s up.”_

“Do you happen to know people who work in film?”

_“Do I happen to know?”_ Changkyun laughs. _“Dude, my boyfriend’s an actor.”_

Wonwoo laughs. He scrolls down to the next 50 Soonyoung’s on the list. 

“Since when?” He says. “I can never keep track.”

_“Fuck off,”_ Changkyun says without heat. _“Did you call just to invalidate my love life?”_

“I want you to find someone,” Wonwoo says.

_“To settle down with?”_

“No. I need your help looking for someone. He works in film.”

_“Like an actor?”_

“Film crew.”

_“Who?”_ Changkyun says. _“A producer? Cameraman?”_

“I’m actually not sure.” Wonwoo scrolls down to the next 50 Soonyoung’s. “The name’s Soonyoung.”

_“Wonwoo.”_ Changkyun laughs. _“Do you know how big one film crew is, let alone across the whole of South Korea?”_

“I’m pretty sure he’s in Seoul.”

There’s a pause over the line. Someone in the background says something. The music returns for a moment, then fades out again. Changkyun comes back with a rustle.

_“Seoul’s still pretty big,”_ Changkyun sighs. Wonwoo always gets his way. “ _What Soonyoung? Kim Soonyoung? Shin Soonyoung?_ ”

“Any,” Wonwoo says.

_“You owe me,”_ Changkyun says. _“Big time.”_

There aren’t many Soonyoung’s who work in film, as it turns out, and even fewer who fall within the right age range. 

(Wonwoo doesn’t trust him to be the same age.) 

At four AM, two days after he sees Soonyoung’s face on a grainy photograph, he comes across a certain Kwon Soonyoung, stunt double, on the list Changkyun sent him.

It takes him an hour to find his social security number and contact. He also finds out—to his surprise—they’re the same age. 

He doubts film people adhere to a strict nine to five, but around dinner time, he’s at a low-rise without a lift. To be sure, he checks the mail for room 402: The letters are indeed addressed to Kwon Soonyoung.

He waits outside the door.

A few hours pass by. Wonwoo pulls out his computer and connects to the closest wifi. He finds a few devices connected to the network, including “Soonyoung’s iPad” and “Soonyoung’s PC”.

Wonwoo stops there. For the next hour, he uses the wifi to scroll through a list of cats that are up for adoption.

It doesn’t seem like he can adopt one soon.

At eleven PM, someone emerges from the stairwell, carrying a plastic bag that rustles with each step. 

Soonyoung doesn’t seem surprised to see him sitting at his doorstep. He walks up and punches in the passcode. 

Wonwoo stands up from his spot and follows after him, stepping past the threshold. He stays at the entryway and doesn’t bother taking off his shoes.

“You stalked me?” Soonyoung says, placing the plastic bag on the kitchen counter. When Wonwoo doesn’t answer, he says, “Creep.”

Wonwoo stays where he is. “Where’s the certificate?”

Soonyoung opens the fridge. “What certificate?”

“The Max Ernst.”

“There isn’t one.”

“There used to be one.”

Soonyoung huffs out a laugh. He empties the bagful of apples except one into the fridge. 

“We both know it’s fake.” Soonyoung leans against the fridge door to force it shut. He washes the apple, then takes a knife from the drying rack and cuts into it. “Now go home.”

He looks tired and sweaty, miles from the version of himself in New York. Wonwoo wonders what kind of stunt he did; if the youtube videos Wonwoo’s watched were anything to go by, did Soonyoung jump off a flying motorbike today as well.

“You talked to me first,” Wonwoo says.

Soonyoung laughs again. “That’s ‘cause I thought you were loaded.” The smile slides off his face. The first chunk of apple lands in a bowl. Thunk. “No offense.”

“Someone else found out,” Wonwoo says. “The chip analysis showed titanium white. They’re hunting down our dealer now.”

“Sucks.” Second piece, thunk. Third piece, thunk. Et cetera. He finishes cutting the apple and throws the core away. He washes his hand and dries it on a dishcloth. “And how might this concern me?”

“Your face is in the gallery digital archive. You’re next.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Informing you,” Wonwoo corrects. He watches Soonyoung putter around the kitchen, putting water to boil for his instant noodles. “I’m not the one who’s desperate to get them off my back.”

Soonyoung turns around and fixes Wonwoo a blank look. He leans back against the counter, munching on a segment of apple; crossing his arms, uncrossing them, and ultimately decides to grip onto the ledge.

“There must’ve been some misunderstanding, Wonwoo-ssi,” Soonyoung begins, face innocent and voice sweet. “You steal, we forge. I don’t see how one of us should act holier than the other.”

“I’m not offering out of a place of superiority,” Wonwoo says.

“Out of what, then?”

“Mutual benefit.”

For a long second, they stare at each other. The water bubbles, then boils, spitting steam into the otherwise motionless kitchen.

Soonyoung turns around and tears open the noodle packet. He adds in the noodles first.

“I bet you already know where our workshop is,” Soonyoung says, poking the noodles with a pair of chopsticks to drown it. He’s smiling again. Wonwoo doesn’t know what to think. “Meet me there tomorrow. Ten PM.”

Wonwoo does know where the workshop is. It’s in a warehouse among many others in Gimpo.

A part of him wonders if he should’ve told Seungcheol about this and asked him to come along, but he also fears that would make Soonyoung more wary, which would eventually make him lose the last lead.

So Wonwoo goes alone. He arrives ten minutes early.

Three minutes before the promised time, he sees Soonyoung walking towards him.

“Good evening,” Soonyoung says. He digs out a key ring with a tiger charm. He first works on the padlock, secured around the door handles by a heavy chain. Then he unlocks a deadbolt lock and pushes the metal door aside.

It’s dark. Soonyoung switches to another key for the second set of doors.

“I can’t really see,” Soonyoung mutters, and the key scratches against the lock. “Can you shine on it for me?”

“Sure.”

Wonwoo digs out his phone and shines the flashlight at the lock.

The key slides in easily this time. Soonyoung walks ahead into the workshop and turns on the lights. 

As Wonwoo pockets his phone, he hears footsteps behind him, then a crack against the back of his skull.

He hasn’t been out for long.

Wonwoo blinks open his eyes. He feels a sting on his face and a dull headache. There isn’t much else. It’s very kind of them to get him a chair, even though his hands are tied behind it.

“Hello,” someone says. Wonwoo whips his head around and sees a slight man standing not too far away.

He takes the chance to look around him: dim interior, concrete floor. A number of canvases hang on the walls, some lean against them. Wonwoo recognises a few.

He also sees a wooden bat.

He looks back up. “Where’s Soonyoung?”

The guy laughs brightly. “Weren’t you taught stranger danger?”

Wonwoo decides to ignore that. He looks around some more: the door they entered through is tightly shut by now. Soonyoung is nowhere to be found.

He asks again, “Where’s Soonyoung?”

The guy sighs. He walks closer, close enough that he grabs Wonwoo by a fistful of hair and yanks his head back. He also knocks a bony knee in his stomach.

“Good question—where is Soonyoung?” The guy grinds his knee in harder. Wonwoo grunts at the pain, and that only serves to make him smile wider. “Before we answer that, who do you work for?”

This is strangely reminiscent of when he was trained, for all kinds of things. Wonwoo regulates his breathing, which is the first thing he learnt. He tries to think.

Apparently, he took too long.

“Let’s try again,” the guy says slowly, emphasised by the grind of his knee. Wonwoo coughs. “Who do you work for?”

He grits his teeth. There’s a sweat building at his temple now. “Get me Soonyoung.”

“You seem to be under the wrong impression,” the guy says. He pouts. “What about me?”

“What about you?”

“Can’t we be more than strangers too?” The guy grins. His face is close, and Wonwoo can see he’s beautiful. “C’mon, Wonwoo-ssi. Last chance, or you’ll end up like Soonyoung.”

Wonwoo’s pretty sure he’s bluffing. Soonyoung brought him here, so he’ll be fine, but it seems unlikely he’ll be able to talk to Soonyoung either if he continues like this.

“I’ll give you a number,” he decides.

“That’s a start.” The guy pulls back a little. He digs out his phone and opens the keypad. “Well, I’m waiting.”

“Zero one nine,” Wonwoo begins.

“Good.” The guy hums with delight. “Not the police.”

“Zero two one two.”

“Mhm.”

“One nine nine five.”

“Ah.” The guy raises an eyebrow. He hits dial. “You’re Seungcheol’s people.”

Wonwoo takes a breath. He might’ve had a rib broken—it hurts if he breathes in too deep.

He isn’t sure which is more likely: the guy knowing Seungcheol’s number by heart, or having his number saved as a contact.

Either way, it’s pretty terrifying, especially when there’s a bat on the floor nearby and he’s strapped to a chair.

The call connects. The guy’s face brightens.

“Hey, Seungcheol-ah, it’s been a while,” the guy says, voice cheerful. The other end of the line says something, and he glances at Wonwoo. “Yeah, I’ve got one of your kids with me.”

It doesn’t take long for Seungcheol to arrive. He comes alone.

The tension drains out of him when he sees Wonwoo only mildly scratched up on a chair. He looks around and sees the guy who Wonwoo will henceforth associate with a smile and a knee in his ribs.

“Jeonghan,” Seungcheol says, striding deeper into the workshop.

“Oh,” Jeonghan says. He looks up from his phone with a smile. “Choi Seungcheol.”

Seungcheol doesn’t smile. “Stop calling me by my full name.”

“Seungcheol-ah.” The guy remains undeterred. “You came.”

“You told me to.” Seungcheol looks around. He looks at Wonwoo, then somewhere slightly above his head. He turns back to Jeonghan. “What’s all this about?”

“According to Wonwoo-ssi here,” Jeonghan begins. “Not that I could get another word out of him—but one of our paintings ended up with you guys.”

“Yeah, the new buyer wants our heads on a platter.” Seungcheol rubs the corner of his mouth. “Thanks to you.”

“Nobody _told_ you to lift our painting.”

“We weren’t aware it was yours.”

“Well, good.” Jeonghan nods to himself. “It means we did a good job, right?”

“Apparently not,” Seungcheol says. “They found titanium white in the paint analysis.”

“To err is human.” Jeonghan shrugs. “Should we have a drink? We have plenty to catch up.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. He looks over at Wonwoo, who sits a few metres away, still tied to a chair. 

Jeonghan catches on. He nudges Seungcheol.

“Don’t worry about him, he’s a tough guy,” Jeonghan says. Wonwoo feels conflicted at being complimented. “Soonyoung can clean him up.” His eyes flit above Wonwoo’s head. He smiles. “Right?”

“Go catch up,” comes Soonyoung’s voice from behind. “I can handle this.”

“Thank you,” Jeonghan says. He makes his way towards the far end of the warehouse. “You’re not driving, are you?”

“I called a cab.”

They walk among the blank canvases and empty frames.

A shadow appears in the corner of his eye. Wonwoo tenses and realises it’s Soonyoung, cutting the zip ties over his wrists.

“Can you stand?” Soonyoung asks, stepping away to dispose of them. Wonwoo stands up and dusts off his jeans. Soonyoung waits for a few seconds. “Come with me.”

They pass by Seungcheol and Jeonghan dragging two stools to a foldable table. Soonyoung opens a metal cabinet and peers inside.

“I think we’ve got some rubbing alcohol here,” he says, pulling out bottles of different solvents. He squints at the label of the last bottle. “Isopropyl works, right?”

“It works,” Wonwoo says.

“God, Myungho will kill me,” Soonyoung mutters under his breath. He rummages through the cabinet some more and goes through his own backpack. He finds what he wants and nods at the brown leather sofa. “Sit there.”

An assortment of bottles ends up by their feet. Soonyoung sits down next to him with a box of tissues. He peers at Wonwoo’s face.

“Sorry,” he says. 

That’s rich. Wonwoo doesn’t quite want to accept it yet.

“I would’ve done the same,” he says. 

Without much finesse, Soonyoung opens the isopropyl and pours it over a wad of tissue. He wipes it over Wonwoo’s forehead, and the sting burns deep, like alcohol catching fire. 

Soon, it cools.

Wonwoo squints his left eye as Soonyoung applies some kind of ointment on the wound.

A hum. Soonyoung closes the lid of the container and tosses it back into his bag. “Where else?”

Wonwoo lifts his shirt. It reveals a bruise over his ribs on the right, where Jeonghan kneed him in the stomach.

“Does it hurt when you breathe deeply?”

“Yeah.”

Soonyoung gauges the extent. He presses a hand to it, hard enough to make Wonwoo hiss.

“I don’t think there’s much to be done about it,” Soonyoung says, pulling back. “Unless you go to a hospital. Either way, sneezing or laughing will hurt like a bitch.”

Wonwoo laughs. He clutches to his side and regrets it immediately.

“Thanks.” He lowers his shirt and counts the bottles of soju racking up between Jeonghan and Seungcheol. Six. “You should go drink with them.”

Soonyoung snorts. “My alcohol tolerance is low.” He looks at Wonwoo. “Why don’t you?”

Wonwoo points at his own face, at the wound on his forehead.

Soonyoung huffs out a laugh. He moves to the other end of the sofa, far away from Wonwoo, and curls up with a jacket over himself.

By the end of the night, twelve empty bottles sit on the floor. Soonyoung’s fast asleep. Seungcheol calls a cab and leaves with Wonwoo, his gait hardly swaying.

It’s already morning when they reach home. The place is quiet, the rest of them asleep. 

Before Wonwoo manages to go to his room, Seungcheol pulls him into a hug. They stand at the doorway, where Wonwoo has taken off his shoes. Seungcheol’s shoes are still on.

“Hyung’s sorry,” he says, squeezing Wonwoo tight in a hug.

Wonwoo freezes. At last, he slings an arm across Seungcheol’s back. “It’s okay.”

Seungcheol lets go. He pulls back to look at Wonwoo, eyes red and doubtful. Wonwoo can only stare back, because he really wasn’t lying.

Finally, Seungcheol sighs. “Go sleep.” He takes off his shoes and puts them aside. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Wonwoo slept like a baby with the help of some strong painkillers. He wakes up at ass o’clock with a dying thirst for cold water.

On his way to the kitchen, he hears: “Yoon Jeonghan?”

“Yes. Him,” Seungcheol says.

Wonwoo stops outside Joshua’s door. The conversation is slow and muted. He holds his breath.

Joshua sighs. “What’s he doing here?”

“He’s behind the Max Ernst.”

“He’s always behind something,” Joshua says. 

Silence.

“It’ll be a one time thing,” Seungcheol says. “Once we swap it out, we’re done.”

“That’s not my concern,” Joshua says. “My concern is Yoon Jeonghan.”

As quietly as possible, Wonwoo steps away. He drinks some ice cold water and goes back to bed.

The rib takes six weeks to heal. Wonwoo gets put on a hellish training program as soon as he can laugh without wincing because, despite him staying away from field work as far as possible:

“You have to at least be able to run.”

Wonwoo plops down by the machines in the basement. The sweat is pouring down his back in a steady stream. Fuck breaking a rib—those weeks of bedrest is making him atrophy.

“I can run,” Wonwoo says. “When the situation calls for it.”

“Yeah,” Seungcheol says. He adjusts his workout gloves. “Be prepared to run a lot more.”

“What?”

Seungcheol says, an offhand comment before he gets up for another circuit, “Geneva Freeport is fucking huge.”

This may be what prepared him for when Seungcheol drops the bomb in the evening.

Chan doesn’t respond well. 

“All of this for Boo Seungkwan?” He scoffs. “ _And_ another team?”

Seungcheol nods. “We lift the Max Ernst and replace it.”

“With what?”

“One that doesn’t contain titanium white,” Jihoon completes the thought. “I suppose.”

Wonwoo sits back. He has nothing else to contribute—not after he connected Seungcheol to Yoon Jeonghan at the expense of a broken rib. Seungcheol doesn’t ask much else of him, either, other than to put more effort in his recovery.

“Can we trust them?” Hansol asks.

“No,” Joshua says. “But trust them to do it for the money.”

Chan scoffs. “On top of working for free, we have to pay out of our own pockets?”

“Do you have an alternative?” Mingyu says, irked.

“I don’t know—maybe just do away with that homicidal lunatic?” Chan grabs a pen and spins it. 

“And after that?” Mingyu stares. “Let that fake painting sit in the storage, like a ticking time bomb?”

Jihoon glances over. “Mingyu.”

“It can come back and bite us in the ass,” Mingyu continues. He gets up, picking up the dirty dishes. The lisp slips in. “I need this job, so get lost if you’re not helping.”

He stalks off to the kitchen. The dirty dishes land in the sink with a clatter, and the tap begins to run.

Chan gets up.

“Fuck this,” he mutters.

He walks away. His bedroom door slams shut.

As surprising as Mingyu’s ability to do dishes for someone he’s mad at, Chan turns up for the combined meeting. Even more so, he rides shotgun in Mingyu’s car on the way there.

Wonwoo looks out of the backseat window. Wonders never cease.

The warehouse in question grows from a distant, tiny dot to a full blown phantom headache. Wonwoo steps out of the car. He treads with caution.

In broad daylight, he can appreciate the pine green of the paint work. Seungcheol calls someone to open the door for them. This time, it’s Jeonghan.

The metal door slides open with a screech. Yoon Jeonghan counts them with his eyes, then looks at Seungcheol. “You’ve got quite a crowd here.”

Seungcheol shrugs, already walking in. “Not enough space?”

Jeonghan laughs. “You wish.”

They file in after him.

Wonwoo brings up the back. He checks the streets for a final time before stepping past the threshold. The whole time, he can’t help but keep an eye on Jeonghan, who trails behind him to lock the doors.

Jeonghan strolls right up to him, like he doesn’t know the fight or flight kicking into gear inside Wonwoo right now.

“Don’t worry, I’m pretty harmless,” Jeonghan reassures. He smiles, showing all his small teeth. “Plus Soonyoung told me off after you left.”

Hesitantly, Wonwoo says, “Right.”

Jeonghan lets out another one of his gleeful laughs before they pass through the second set of doors.

Inside, there’s work in progress. There’s someone painting, which is new. There’s also a corner of interior decoration, at odds with the concrete lining the rest of the warehouse. 

“Fuck,” Mingyu says, making a beeline for the painting, eyes wide but unable to take in anything else in his way. He almost knocks the person off the stool. “Is this _another_ Max Ernst?”

The person shoots him a look. He goes back to scraping a spatula against the canvas. “In the _style_ of Max Ernst.”

Mingyu looks around them. He gapes at the box by their feet. He looks between the contents and the canvas. “Are you using those seashells?”

“Yes,” the person says. “Under the canvas.”

“Guys,” Jeonghan yells over them, which is not very loud at all. It still gets their attention. “This is Choi Seungcheol’s team—”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you, stop using my surname—”

“—who’ll be the ones to save us from deep shit, apparently.”

Someone pipes up. “Are we in deep shit?”

It’s Soonyoung’s smiley friend he met in New York.

“Apparently _,_ ” Jeonghan repeats and drags a few stools over. He plops down on the sofa himself, legs crossed and arms spread. “Sorry, we don’t usually have guests over.”

In the corner of his eye, Wonwoo sees Joshua roll his neck.

They do their brief introductions. Jeonghan’s team has five people, including himself. They jump right into planning.

“We’ll try to replace the painting with one that doesn’t have titanium white,” Seungcheol says. He scratches his nose. “One that hopefully looks the same.”

Jeonghan tilts his head at the painter, a guy whose hands are covered in splatters of oil paint. 

“No.”

Chan shifts in his spot, only managing to stay in place by Joshua’s grip on his shirt.

Seungcheol looks up. He levels the painter guy with a look. “Do you need time to think about it?”

“No,” the guy says. He glances over at his canvas at work, then back. “I don’t do replicas.”

Jeonghan’s quick to interfere. He places a hand on the painter’s knee and smiles at Seungcheol.

“What Myungho means is—he does pastiches,” Jeonghan explains, patting the painter over his paint-splattered, denim-clad knee. “We don’t copy paintings.”

“Minghao,” the guy helpfully supplies.

Chan laughs. “Copy or not, it’s still fake.”

Jeonghan lifts his eyes from Seungcheol. The smile stays on his face.

“Never said it was real,” Jeonghan says. He appraises Chan with his eyes, mouth slanted. “Anyway. What’s your name again?”

Hansol stifles a laughter next to him.

The vein in Chan’s forehead bulges. “Lee Chan.”

“Ah yes, Lee Chan-ssi,” Jeonghan says, taking back his hand on Minghao’s knee to rest it on the back of the sofa. He talks slowly, like he’s explaining playground rules to a child. “The reason we don’t do replicas is to avoid having identical looking paintings on the market.” 

“Not even for swapping out?” Jihoon asks.

At some point, Soonyoung joined, standing at the edge of the circle. His eyes fall on every one of them, studying, before they reach Wonwoo. 

The contact stays no more than a second. 

“It’s not feasible,” Minghao says. “I don’t have a draft for the painting. I can try, but it would look quite different—”

“Not even for a few million?” Wonwoo asks.

That catches his attention.

The smiley guy—Seokmin—tilts his head. “A few million _what_?”

“A few million US. The gallery’s getting 20 million at least from its insurance,” Wonwoo says. He adjusts his glasses. “The statute of limitation in New York runs out after three years.”

Soonyoung makes a sound. “They’ll try to buy back the painting,” he says. “Without pressing charges.”

“Yes.” Wonwoo looks at him. “And assuming the media coverage jacked up its price, it’ll bring us a few million.”

“At least,” Jihoon adds. “The most recent Max Ernst sold for 3 million US.”

Something flashes in Jeonghan’s eyes: the same thing that keeps them going, which is not hard to understand.

He looks at Minghao again, for a few wordless seconds, then at Seokmin, Soonyoung, and the remaining member.

He turns back to Seungcheol and says, “Go on.”

It’s like a primary school field trip.

Once they outline a rough plan, work is forgotten in favour of fawning over art pieces and technology. That is the case for Mingyu at least, who’s still attached to Minghao like a shadow.

“Do you send those paints to the labs?” Mingyu points at the specimen tubes.

“Yes,” Minghao says. He recaps the lid to one of them. “The titanium white was my fault. I skipped testing one of the tubs.”

“Out of?”

“Hm. Twelve?”

“Can I try?”

“Sure.”

Wonwoo walks to the corner of interior design among the bleakness. There’s a box of props on the side. At the top of the pile, he finds the rotary dial phone he saw in the photo.

He inspects the rest of the contents: white lace tablecloth, fake flowers and leaves, Japanese tea cups, a vase.

“Having fun?”

Wonwoo turns around at the voice. Soonyoung stands a few steps away.

“Was this the set?” Wonwoo asks instead. He stands up, knees cracking.

“It was,” Soonyoung says. He walks closer, coming to a stop next to him. “Wanna try?”

“Try what?” Wonwoo asks. “Vintage pics?”

“Yeah,” Soonyoung says. He takes out an old-looking camera and looks into the viewfinder. “Wanna be a 20th century hottie?”

“How about 21st century hottie?”

Soonyoung lowers the camera. He thumbs the lever and advances the film. “You gotta step out of your comfort zone sometimes.”

Wonwoo snorts. The phantom ache in his ribs is back, and he finds the need to breathe a little deeper.

“Should I change, then?” Wonwoo asks, looking down at his own T-shirt and jeans. “I hardly look ancient.”

“There’s a shirt and a suit in the box,” he says. “Try them on.”

To none of their surprise, the clothes fit too snugly, especially around the shoulders. Wonwoo pulls at the sleeves, unused to cuffs that end above his wrists. He shuffles over to Soonyoung in his sneakers.

“Should I do something with my hair?” Wonwoo says.

Soonyoung looks over from fixing the camera on a stand. He stares for a few seconds. “Maybe style it back.”

Wonwoo tries to brush his bangs back without avail. He gives up. “How about my glasses?”

“Keep them,” Soonyoung says. He digs through the cabinet. “They suit the vibe.”

He comes back with a comb and a small container. Wonwoo holds still as Soonyoung reaches up, using the tail end of the comb to part his hair. He spreads the product on his fingers and runs them through the strands, then repeats the process with the comb.

It’s strangely hypnotic.

Wonwoo can count three instances thus far with Soonyoung this close to him: the first was an act, the second time was an act out of guilt for having him beaten up, the third is an act for taking a fake vintage photo.

He looks down. Soonyoung catches him staring and looks back.

“What?” He asks.

Wonwoo shakes his head. Soonyoung lowers his hands.

“Go sit somewhere,” Soonyoung says, putting back the container and the comb. He holds the camera and points it at Wonwoo. “Remember to look stiff, like your eyes are drying out from not blinking.” Wonwoo feels the tug of his mouth. Soonyoung adds, “No smiling either.”

His temple throbs, where Soonyoung wiped with flammable liquid some weeks ago. He tries to remember that as he stares straight into the lens.

The click of the shutter announces finality. Wonwoo looks away and sees the last unintroduced member.

“You must be Wonwoo-ssi,” the guy says. He fixes him an eerie smile. “Soonyoung claimed business expenses for your lunch, y’know?”

The plan advances.

Sometimes it happens at the warehouse, sometimes at their apartment. It depends on where most people are on the day.

Today ends up with eleven people in the living room. This has to stop happening.

“There’s an iris scanner, then a vascular scanner,” Wonwoo explains. “And that’s before you even reach the reception.”

“We don’t necessarily have to go in that way, do we?” Mingyu asks.

“We can bypass them,” Wonwoo says. “But that’ll have to start from the inside. They have two backup generators with 100% capacity. One of them is natural gas.”

“Can’t we just, I dunno, go in as cleaning staff?” Seokmin says. “Or logistics people?”

Wonwoo thinks. There are mergers who subcontract their jobs to smaller companies. That could be a way in.

“I’ll have a look at their protocols,” he says. He types that into his memos. “Though I’m not sure if external personnel can enter beyond the loading bay—”

_Knock knock._

They look up. Wonwoo has a feeling who that could be. He sincerely hopes Chan doesn’t get the door this time.

_Knock knock knock._

“I’ll go get it,” Hansol says and hops off the table.

Turns out Seungkwan knows everyone here. It’s not unusual, as far as dealers go. His lack of inhibition reaches beyond talking about the body part he received in the mail, with dry ice and gel ice packs to keep it freshly refrigerated, complete with a ribbon on the box.

“It’s one of my client’s expert friends,” Seungkwan says. He’s holding a cup of hot tea Hansol gave him. It speaks volumes, knowing his insistence on iced americanos even in the Arctic winter. “He wrote an article on the Max Ernst.”

Seungkwan’s phone, showing the contents of his parcel, is being passed around. Jeonghan takes one look and wrinkles his nose. 

“Who are they to threaten our Seungkwanie?” He clicks his tongue. The glint in his eyes turns playful. “You aren’t afraid of things like that, are you?”

“They literally took away the fucking tool of his art!” Seungkwan shrieks. The tea in his hands spills out of the mug, and his eyes grow red. “I don’t want them to take my tongue.”

“Don’t worry,” Chan says. His attempt at consolation is pathetic. “They won’t bother.”

Jeonghan shoots him a dirty look. He rounds to Seungkwan’s chair and coos, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Seungkwan leans into it without another word, shoulders shaking.

“Hyung can help,” he says, patting a soothing rhythm on Seungkwan’s back.

“No,” Seungkwan mumbles. The dam has broken, and he alternates between hiccuping and speaking in short sentences. “Even if the painting—” _hiccup_ “—is gone, he’ll—” _hiccup_ “—he’ll find me.”

Jeonghan hugs him tighter. Wonwoo sees the smile on his face. It shoots ice picks down his spine.

“He won’t be able to find you,” Jeonghan says. “I promise.”

Seungkwan pulls back. He blinks, tears clumping his eyelashes together. “Really?”

“Yes, but,” Jeonghan says. He pouts and stares into Seungkwan’s eyes. “I need help selling a few paintings to cover the cost.”

Wonwoo finds Joshua packing a bag without saying anything. It’s alarming. The last time that happened was to get Chan off the hook for his first unsupervised mission.

“Where are you going?” Wonwoo asks.

Joshua looks up from the shirt he’s folding. He puts it at the bottom of his bag and begins folding another shirt.

“I’m going with Jeonghan,” he says. A pause. “Seungcheol asked me to.”

Wonwoo frowns. Without letting on what he heard before, he says, “He could’ve asked any other one of us.”

“I know.” He begins folding his trousers. “Still, he asked.”

In fifteen more minutes, the bag is packed. Joshua takes one of the many passports available from the safe. When he leaves, he brushes past Wonwoo at the door.

Joshua stops in his tracks. He looks at Wonwoo with something like worry, which shouldn’t be, because Wonwoo’s not the one going anywhere.

“What’s that face for?” He asks, putting down his bag. He hugs Wonwoo for a brief few seconds, then steps back. As always, he smiles. “C’mon, I won’t be long.”


	2. trace

“Your name?”

“Sakano Yuuji.”

“Address for contact?”

“10-9, Daikanyama-cho, Shibuya city, Tokyo-do, 150-0034, Japan.”

“Mr Yuuji—”

“My surname is Sakano,” Soonyoung corrects.

“Mr Sakano.” A pen click. “What is the purpose of your trip?”

“I’m here to travel,” Soonyoung says. He makes unflinching eye contact. “I also have an artwork to store.”

“What kind of artwork?”

“A painting by Campendonk.”

“Is it yours?”

“Yes, of course. It’s a family heirloom,” Soonyoung says. He looks down at the table. “My father—he didn’t leave much for me other than this painting. I want to keep it safe.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

The chair creaks under the shift of weight. “How did you arrange for it to be moved?”

“I hired a logistics company. They specialise in fine arts and have storage space here.”

“Are you in any way associated with the company?”

“No.” Soonyoung looks up. He recounts, “A friend of mine works in a gallery and gave me a few contacts. I got quotations and decided on the one I’m using now.”

“I see.” Pen click. “You hired Régal Le Coultre in the end, is this right?”

“Correct.”

“Over the course of the… arrangement, was there an instance where you had doubts in the company?”

Soonyoung frowns. “What do you mean?”

“What I meant was, was there any reason—at any point in time—that made you worried about your painting’s safety?”

Soonyoung blinks. 

“No,” he says. “I trust my friend. I heard the company’s a familiar name at the warehouse.”

“Is your friend affiliated with the company?”

“No. He hired the company to move paintings for him, though,” Soonyoung says, leaning back with an unimpressed frown. “Excuse me—are we done?”

“Almost, sorry. Are you in a hurry?”

“I’m catching a flight to Paris.”

“We can make alternate arrangements for you.”

“No, thank you,” Soonyoung says. “It’s a dinner I don’t want to miss.”

Wonwoo watches the exchange on the monitor. The mock interrogation is coming to an end.

“He’s much better than us at this,” Jihoon says, arms crossed at the computer.

“Of course he is,” Mingyu says. “He does that for a living.”

“You do that for a living too,” Jihoon says. “Since you can’t handle heights for shit.”

Mingyu grins. He leans into Jihoon’s space. “I’m good too, right?”

“My exact wording was, _‘you do that for a living too.’”_ Jihoon rolls his eyes. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

The door opens, and Soonyoung walks out, Hansol following close behind. 

“How was it?” Soonyoung asks, walking closer to them. He peers at the computer. “Was it okay?”

“It was good,” Jihoon says.

“Oh.” Soonyoung’s eyes widen. He blinks a few times “Really?”

“Yep.”

“Uh, thank you.” Soonyoung smiles, suddenly bashful. His eyes fleet from person to person, like he wants to escape, but he stays in place, rubbing his arm as he leans against the table. “Do you mind if I borrow the computer? I want to monitor the others on my team.”

“Sure,” Wonwoo says. He pulls out a hard drive. “Let me backup the videos first.”

It’s been a few days since Jeonghan left the country, and along with him went Joshua. Wonwoo’s been getting updates of their locations, but that’s about it. Ever since, Soonyoung’s been more involved with the planning.

“Soonyoung,” Seungcheol calls from the door.

“Yes?”

“Training.”

“Be right there,” Soonyoung calls back. He glances at Wonwoo. “I have to go, sorry.”

“It’s fine. I can copy it onto a USB and encrypt it.”

“Thanks.” Soonyoung smiles. “What’s the password?”

“It’s a riddle.” Wonwoo compresses the videos into lower quality. “I’ll send it to you later.”

“I’ll have to guess?”

“Yeah.”

“You just like being cryptic.”

“Won't hurt to use your brain, will it?”

Soonyoung wrinkles his nose at him. “I told you, I tend not to think.”

Wonwoo drags the compressed videos over to the USB folder.

“It’s gonna take a while,” he decides on saying, keeping his eyes on the computer. “You should go first.”

He doesn’t know which parts of their exchange were real, which parts were fake. Maybe every single one of them was an act, serving a purpose like both their Max Ernst paintings.

One thing he knows is real: Soonyoung’s name. 

But that, too, can change.

“Okay.” Soonyoung lingers for a few seconds before going, pushing away from the table. “Talk to you later.”

##  **Ligue 1 Football Club President Suffers Brain Stroke, Currently In ICU**

Updated: 21 hours ago 

Sports chairman Oleg Stephanov, the president of AS Beausoleil FC, suffered a brain stroke at his private residence in Perm, Russia. According to an Izvestia report, the 88-year-old oligarch was noticed to slur in his speech and eventually lost consciousness around 2 AM by a companion who does not wish to be named. He was rushed to the Regional Clinical Hospital of Perm for urgent medical care. Meanwhile, his family travelled back from their Moscow home to manage his care.

Stephanov was transferred to the private Hospital Nizhny Novgorod this morning. The sports chairman’s daughter, Alexandra, would like to thank all of those who expressed their concern. “He is now recovering at the ICU,” she confirms.

The bloody mail to Seungkwan stops. Jeonghan returns first, sporting a few marks on his wrists, his ankles, and his neck. He seems well, though. In high spirits, even. His face is intact with a hint of glitter.

Joshua comes back next a few days later. He jumps straight into training, often helping Seungcheol with Soonyoung’s case. 

They have less than six month’s time to prepare. It’s a steep learning curve for those who only just dipped their toes into field work. On top of that, they’re not targeting some underfunded museum with subpar security—the Geneva Freeport is much trickier.

“He’s impressive,” says Seungcheol one day as he works Wonwoo to the bone in the gym.

“You should recruit him,” Wonwoo says, flipping over onto his back. He catches his breath facing the ceiling. “He’d do well on field.”

“He would. Well, he used to do field,” Seungcheol says. “For a short while.”

Wonwoo lifts his head off the floor. “He used to?”

“Yup.”

Wonwoo stares for a few more seconds. He lets his head drop back down. “I didn’t know that.”

Seungcheol laughs. 

“You should get used to not knowing things,” he says, patting Wonwoo’s chest to press him for another circuit. The one minute break is up. “Not everything can be found on a computer.”

Begrudgingly, Wonwoo crawls back up. He doesn’t quite want to admit defeat, especially when it comes to computers.

“How did you know?”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. It reminds Wonwoo of his little brother, who he hasn’t seen in years.

He starts the timer.

Training for field involves another set of skills: camera, voice recorders, earpieces, GPS trackers, and counter-surveillance devices.

That doesn’t even include the things of free port security.

So Wonwoo doesn’t see Soonyoung often. 

The only times he does, they’re hard pressed for time. Tech, being Soonyoung’s weakness, takes up a huge part of the preparation. At one point, Soonyoung needed to bring work home, and Wonwoo’s phone has been blowing up with messages about the device manuals ever since he gave him his number, sometimes as late as three AM.

Wonwoo answers them one by one. He’s the resident tech guy, afterall. That’s his job.

His job, however, does not involve financial or legal consultations, so he has no idea why Soonyoung comes to him one day and asks him how to set up a nonprofit foundation.

“Aren’t you in charge of their finances?”

“I help them move money to other accounts,” Wonwoo says. He takes a sip of his coffee. “That’s it.”

Soonyoung looks around them for a second. “I thought—actually, nevermind.” He rubs his arm and looks up. “Do you know anyone who can help?”

Wonwoo wants to bite his own tongue. Fake or genuine, what Soonyoung’s doing now makes him want to help.

“What do you need a foundation for?” He asks.

They’re standing in the kitchen, and the fridge beside them suddenly hums. Soonyoung jumps.

“I make regular bank transfers for something,” Soonyoung begins. “But I’ll be leaving for Japan soon, right? And we’re gonna lay low for two to three years after that.”

What Soonyoung does with his money is none of Wonwoo’s business. Who is he to judge, anyway.

Still, he asks, “For what?”

Soonyoung squints at him. “I’d rather answer to whoever’s helping me.”

Wonwoo sighs. He places his mug in the sink. Off the top of his head, he can think of a few contacts who proved to be trustworthy for this kind of thing.

“I can help,” he says.

He turns on the tap and lets the water run. 

“Really?” Soonyoung steps closer. He watches Wonwoo grab the sponge and scrub the mug clean. The whole time, he stares. “Are you serious?”

Wonwoo shuts the tap. He flicks water off his hands.

“You need a new bank account,” he says. “And a fuckton of signatures.”

“You’re willing to do that?” Soonyoung asks, still staring.

“I’ll give you contacts and help you with what you may need,” Wonwoo clarifies, drying his hands. When Soonyoung doesn’t answer, he frowns. “Do you still want it?”

Soonyoung snaps back into action. “Yes,” he says. “Of course. I just—” He takes a deep breath. “Thank you so much.”

Wonwoo huffs. “It hasn’t even been set up yet.”

“But you’re offering,” Soonyoung says. He places a hand on Wonwoo’s shoulder, the warmth seeping through the shirt, and Wonwoo turns to it. “Is there anything I can do?”

Wonwoo asks him to prepare a few documents for the paperwork. 

He arrives at Soonyoung’s place two days later, armed with a bunch of forms to be filled out and signed. Soonyoung told him he’ll be home the whole day, so Wonwoo doesn’t bother to text until he’s at the bottom of the building.

A sweaty Soonyoung opens the door despite the air conditioning. There are boxes everywhere in the background, from kitchenware to clothes, from the living room to the entryway. 

“I didn’t know you’d be here so soon,” Soonyoung explains, kicking aside a box so he can open the door wider. “It’s really messy, sorry.”

“It’s the same at ours,” Wonwoo says. He sits down on the spot that Soonyoung just cleared of winter coats. 

Soonyoung lifts the collar of his shirt to wipe his face. “Do you want water? Tea?”

“Water.” Wonwoo takes out his computer. “Thanks.”

The water arrives in a tiger print mug, matching with Soonyoung’s own. Soonyoung sits down on the floor by his feet and begins talking.

“Are you all packed?” He asks, glancing at the boxes around them. “I’m starting to think there’s no end to this.”

“I don’t have much,” Wonwoo says. He opens up a few files. “I’m sending away everything that can’t fit in a suitcase.”

“That’s smart.” Soonyoung looks up at him from the floor. “You sound well-planned.”

From Wonwoo’s spot on the sofa, he can see the crown of Soonyoung’s head. It has a nice shape, like it would fit nicely in his hand.

Wonwoo averts his eyes, turning back to the forms on the computer.

They begin with defining the purpose of the foundation. It’s the first question.

“So,” Soonyoung says. “I’m kinda funding some kid’s living costs.”

Wonwoo doesn't look away from the computer, hands poised on the keyboard.

“Your kid?” He asks.

“What?” Soonyoung whips around. He laughs. “You think I have a kid?”

“It’s a reasonable assumption.” Wonwoo shrugs. He begins typing. “You’re basically raising a child.”

Soonyoung cackles more openly, doubling over and knocking his forehead against Wonwoo’s knee. Only when he gets out of breath he sits back up, teary-eyed.

“No. And I don’t think I’ll have one,” he says, still laughing. “Like, I used to think about it, because everybody else seems to, right? But no.” He wipes his eyes. “I’m happy to be the cool uncle.”

Half of a sentence appears in the box. The cursor blinks.

“Hm. Why?”

“Is that a question in the form?”

“No.” Wonwoo runs a hand through his hair. He got lost following Soonyoung’s tangent. “Anyway, you have a specific beneficiary in mind.” He pauses. “Or is it beneficiaries?”

“Just one.”

“You’ll have to put down their name and social security number.”

“I think I have it,” Soonyoung mutters, pulling out his phone. He scrolls through messages in a chatroom. Once he finds it, he leans over to get his hands on the computer. “Let me type it.”

Soonyoung types with his index fingers and nothing else. Wonwoo sits back, both disbelieving and unsurprised. He should’ve expected this, knowing his incompatibility with gadgets.

As he finishes typing, he stays, leaning over Wonwoo’s knee, chest warm over the side of his calf. He presses the page down button and moves onto the next part.

Bit by bit, they complete the form. They also fill out the application for employer status, tax exemption, and licensing. 

It’s a little before midnight when Soonyoung gets up from the floor and stretches towards the ceiling. He makes a whiney sound, then drops back onto the balls of his feet.

Wonwoo silently packs up.

Soonyoung sees him to the door. He stands beside Wonwoo as he wears his shoes.

“I thought it’d be much more complex than this,” he says. “Don’t we need lawyers or something?”

“It usually is.” Wonwoo tightens his laces and stands up straight. “Our accountant uses lawyers he knows.”

Soonyoung holds the door open for Wonwoo as he shoulders the backpack. The sound of cicadas flood in, as loud as the humming of the AC.

Wonwoo steps out. Soonyoung waves, silhouette framed by a block of light spilling into the dark hallway.

“See you tomorrow,” Soonyoung says. 

Wonwoo nods. Halfway through the first flight of stairs, he hears the door shut.

Wonwoo begins to live out of a suitcase eventually. He’s sent everything else worth keeping to the address he decided for the next three years. The rest he donates to charity.

He also sees Soonyoung a lot more.

Soonyoung mostly finds him after he spars with Joshua or trains with Seungcheol on using rebreathers. He reminds Wonwoo of the stray he used to feed back then—stingy before being presented the canned food. Ever since the first time, whenever Wonwoo showed up, it came running and rubbing up against his leg.

It’s not their fault that their brains associate rewards with whomever giving them. It’s still their own volition when they go running towards, though conditioned.

Wonwoo supposes he has nobody but himself to blame for associating Soonyoung with the burn on his temple or a hand on his ribs. Or a warm palm on his shoulder, or smiles that Soonyoung seems to be showing him more and more often.

It gets worse the closer they are to Seokmin and Soonyoung’s flight to Tokyo, scheduled early December.

Two days prior to their departure, Soonyoung gives him a box of pears. 

“My mum sent me those.” As Wonwoo picks one up to sniff it, he adds, “Don’t hog them all. I brought them for you to share.”

“You’re so generous,” Wonwoo says. He tosses the pear and catches it. “That averages 0.67 pears for each of us.”

“They came all the way from Namyangju,” Soonyoung tells him. “Be grateful.” 

Wonwoo pushes back from the computer. Spending a few months with con men teaches you a few things. He sighs, contorting his face into one of betrayal. “And here I thought you’d appreciate my efforts more.”

“I do appreciate your efforts,” Soonyoung says. He seems amused by Wonwoo and his acting. “Those pears are just fucking expensive.”

Wonwoo sighs again. “Not even a dinner, I see.”

“If I remember correctly,” Soonyoung says, tapping his chin. “ _You_ were the one to buy me dinner after the auction that never happened.”

“If I remember correctly,” Wonwoo says back. He puts down the pear. “We never confirmed anything.”

It’s Soonyoung’s turn to sigh now. “You’ll confirm plans to lift a Max Ernst painting,” he mumbles with a pout. “But you won’t even confirm a dinner with me.”

And that’s the story of how Wonwoo’s conned into buying dinner for Soonyoung.

It’s not too expensive a dinner compared to their lunch in New York, but Wonwoo still grumbles as they order meat to be grilled.

“Relax,” Soonyoung says, pouring drinks for the both of them. “This hardly makes a dent in your wallet.”

“You claimed business expenses for our lunch,” Wonwoo reasons.

“I gotta admit, I didn’t plan on doing so in the beginning.” Soonyoung bumps their rice wine bowls together. “But when the auction was cancelled, I realised and went— _ah, is that so?”_

“Is _what_ so?”

 _“That guy’s just playing with me.”_ Soonyoung puts on a voice for his past self. _“I can never be his sugar baby and sell our paintings.”_

Wonwoo laughs out loud, way too loud for a restaurant that can only hold twenty people. The ahjussi sets down their meat platter and gives him a weird look.

“Who knows,” Wonwoo says. Soonyoung lays a few slices on the grill. “You did manage to sell them in the end.”

“Not to you, though.” Soonyoung refills Wonwoo’s drink, and vice versa. He makes grabby hands for the tongs, and Wonwoo passes them over.

Wonwoo shrugs. “I can buy them, if you want.”

“See.” Soonyoung points the tongs at him. “You’ll buy expensive paintings but complain about treating me to dinner.”

“It’s a matter of principle,” Wonwoo says. “It’s the principle of paying out of your own pocket.”

“I can pay out of my own pocket,” Soonyoung says. He places a piece of pork belly in Wonwoo’s bowl, then a piece in his own. They set another few slices to grill. “Man, I can’t believe we’ll never see each other again.”

Wonwoo looks up from his bowl. He sees Soonyoung’s red face.

“Are you drunk?” He asks, incredulous. 

Soonyoung’s puffs his cheeks. “My point still stands,” he says, shackles up.

The meat sizzles between them. 

“We’ll still meet in Geneva,” Wonwoo says.

Soonyoung pouts. “Just for work.”

“If not what for?” 

“I dunno.” Soonyoung sighs. He takes a sip. “It’s just nice knowing you, Wonwoo-yah.”

The conclusion is: Soonyoung is an emotional drunk. 

“Are you seriously drunk?” Wonwoo asks, replacing the wine bowl in Soonyoung’s hand with a cup of cold water. “What if you have to drink at work?”

“I pretend to trip,” Soonyoung says. He makes an unhappy noise when Wonwoo keeps the bowl out of reach, then changes targets and grabs Wonwoo’s drink. “I spill it everywhere.”

“Surely that can’t happen every time?”

“Believe me, it can.” Soonyoung empties Wonwoo’s rice wine. He smacks his lips and refills it with a wooden ladle. “Guess what’s the most expensive drink I spilled?”

As the last word slides off his tongue, he pours rice wine all over himself.

Wonwoo snickers. He reaches for the tissue box, pulling a few magician style. “Not this.”

“ _Definitely_ not this,” Soonyoung says. Before he refills his wine bowl again, Wonwoo does it for him. “I think… maybe a glass of Chateau Lafite red wine.”

“Which year?”

“1869.” Soonyoung puts the meat in their bowls. 

“Shit.” Wonwoo laughs. “You _spilled_ it?”

“On my shirt.” Soonyoung gives him a cheeky smile. “I took one sip and immediately knew shit was going down.” 

“That became an expensive shirt,” Wonwoo says. 

“I’m the world’s lightest lightweight.”

“You really weren’t lying.”

“I hate lying,” Soonyoung sighs, cheek mushed against a palm to prop himself up.

“Wrong line of work, then,” Wonwoo says.

“Yeah,” Soonyoung says. “Bad at lying too.”

It feels unethical to get more out of Soonyoung in his inebriated state. Wonwoo doesn’t know why he’s having qualms about it when he’s done things way less justifiable than that.

“You used to do field,” Wonwoo prompts, using pork belly as distraction.

Soonyoung sees right through him. His dreamy smile turns sharp. It bites him like teeth breaking through the surface of water.

“I’m not that drunk, Wonwoo-yah.” He leans forward across the plates and bowls. “You can just ask if you wanna know.”

The steam is fogging up Wonwoo’s glasses. He takes them off to wipe them with his shirt.

“Not much point, is there,” he says.

“Why?”

“We’ve only got two days left.”

Wonwoo puts his glasses back on. The first thing thrown into sharp relief is Soonyoung, eyes glassy. Sweat has built up along his hairline, thanks to the kimchi jjigae he insisted on ordering.

“If we had more than two days.” Soonyoung leans back, cheek in palm again. “Would you want to?”

He stares at Soonyoung’s fingers, without the rings he saw him wearing in Manhattan. 

“Maybe,” Wonwoo says. 

He follows the vein on the back of Soonyoung’s hand, slithering down his forearm, up the inside of his bicep. His shoulder curves before the skin disappears under a tank top, and Wonwoo catches his neck, the cord of muscle that stretches towards his earlobe, where the two plain rings of silver tilt with the angle of his head.

Soonyoung catches his eyes. “You’re staring,” he points out.

Wonwoo tries to hold his gaze. “And you’re not?”

For a few seconds, it feels like they’re assessing; sizing each other up.

It’s Soonyoung who breaks eye contact first, reaching for the wooden ladle. The rice wine drips, drips, drips. Only half of it makes it.

“You’re a good person, Wonwoo,” Soonyoung says, scooping more into his bowl, swaying. “You’re very kind.”

“You should stop drinking,” Wonwoo says.

“It’s our last supper,” Soonyoung whines. “Let me have the wine.”

Wonwoo’s left to his own devices to finish the rest of the food while Soonyoung sleeps face down on a folded arm across the table.

He isn’t sure how much they drank, but it was enough to make Soonyoung let it slip that the kid’s his niece. It also made him cry watching a video of her calling him _uncle Soonyoung._

At midnight, Wonwoo calls a cab and asks for the bill. He tries to wake Soonyoung by nudging his shoulder. 

He gets a dismissive grunt instead, so much for being considerate. Soonyoung bats away his hand clumsily, mumbling, “Let me sleep.”

“At least sleep at home.” Wonwoo helps him sit up, then tries his best to put Soonyoung in his padding jacket. “Can you stand up?”

Soonyoung turns his face and glares at him. It’s as threatening as a butter knife.

With one arm over Wonwoo’s shoulders, Soonyoung gets up from the stool. They stumble out of the restaurant into the cold and find their taxi. Wonwoo rattles off the address while Soonyoung proves to be absolutely useless in bringing himself home, leaning against the car window and knocking out.

They get off at the foot of the slope leading up to the low-rise. Now, Soonyoung’s refusing to cooperate, resting his whole weight on Wonwoo.

“I hope you know I’m a tech guy,” Wonwoo says after his third attempt at dragging Soonyoung up the slope.

Soonyoung giggles. His breath comes out in puffs of white. “I know.”

Wonwoo looks around. He could find a cart or something from one of the shops, but they’re all closed now and he failed lockpicking once upon a time.

He sighs, leaning Soonyoung against a lamp post before he kneels down with his back turned. “Can you climb on?”

Soonyoung giggles some more. Someone opens a window and peers down at them.

“What are you doing?” Soonyoung asks.

“Trying to get you home.”

“Oh,” Soonyoung says. He stays quiet while Wonwoo has his knees on the frozen pavement. “You’re not bringing me home?”

Wonwoo twists around with a deadpan. “This is your neighbourhood.”

Soonyoung giggles. “Am _I_ bringing you home?”

“No,” Wonwoo says, turning back around. “Get on.”

Soonyoung stumbles, but he reaches Wonwoo finally, draping himself over his back with a huff. The thick padded coats between them buffer his fall.

Wonwoo tests his grip on Soonyoung’s thighs and stands up.

The slope stretches out before them, dotted by flickering streetlights. Soonyoung’s hair tickles the side of his neck, his head a lolling weight on Wonwoo’s shoulder.

“Your back is so wide,” mumbles Soonyoung, tightening his arms around Wonwoo.

Wonwoo hums. He takes another step. “Is it.”

“Yeah. As wide as the East Sea.” Wonwoo snorts. Soonyoung continues, slurring, “Maybe I can reach you all the way from Japan.”

A lull in the conversation takes over. Step by step, they reach the bottom of the low-rise. Wonwoo goes up the stairs as evenly as he can, trying not to jostle Soonyoung. 

Fifty two steps later, he reaches the fourth floor. He unlocks the door with a four digit passcode while trying to keep Soonyoung on his back. He succeeds.

He pushes open the door and sets Soonyoung down against the wall. Soonyoung slides down into a heap on the floor.

“Take off your shoes,” Wonwoo tells him while he steps out of his own.

“Take off _my_ shoes,” Soonyoung tells him, snickering.

Wonwoo breathes out through his nose. He bends down and undoes the laces before pulling Soonyoung’s shoes off. They land on the hardwood floor: _thump, thump._

“Get up,” Wonwoo says.

“Can’t.” Soonyoung pouts. “Help me.” He reaches out a hand.

Wonwoo slings Soonyoung’s arm over his shoulders and stands him up. They shuffle over to the bedroom, pausing every now and then to regain their footing.

The place is stripped of furniture down to its bare bones. Wonwoo doubts there to be a bed at all.

He’s right.

Inside the bedroom, a mattress lines the wall just under the window, directly on the floor. It’s unmade, covered in messy blankets and wayward pillows. An open suitcase lies beside it.

“You should’ve stayed at a hotel,” Wonwoo comments, bringing them closer.

“The lease is not up yet.”

Their feet reach the edge of the mattress. 

Wonwoo lays Soonyoung down with a grunt. He sits on the floor and catches his breath. 

Some rustling. Beside him, Soonyoung shifts until his cheek is mushed against the pillow. He peers up at Wonwoo, eyes half-open, half-closed.

The blinking street light outside throws the room in chiaroscuro. 

“Thank you,” he mutters.

Wonwoo observes for a moment. He can see how easily one could find themselves more than a few millions short, the reasons laid out on the mattress before him. 

The reason watches him.

“Good night,” he says, making to stand up.

“Wait.” Soonyoung grabs his sleeve. His eyes waver when Wonwoo meets them, shifting like a tremble. “Just a while?”

“I have a security briefing,” Wonwoo says, not pulling away.

“Just a while,” Soonyoung whispers. “I fall asleep fast.”

Yet another story of how Wonwoo’s persuaded into going Soonyoung’s way. He sits back down from a kneel. 

Soonyoung clings to his sleeve, fingers digging into the plush padding. He nuzzles the pillow as he closes his eyes.

“Good night,” Soonyoung mumbles.

“Good night.”

He waits until the grip on his sleeve loosens, until Soonyoung’s mouth slackens and lets out deep, slow breaths.

Wonwoo extracts himself carefully. He calls another cab and goes back.

Soonyoung and Seokmin leave at eleven on a Thursday morning, bringing Minghao’s Campendonk with them. They go through customs with papers Junhui prepared and arrive at their Tokyo address five hours later. Mingyu goes on a different flight.

Wonwoo shares the eight pears among them. He should’ve asked for more.

The rest of the month they rehearse their drills and come up with more and more creative scenarios. Joshua stops sleeping properly the last two weeks, worse than the time he had to help Chan. He pores over the manuals for security guards and their equipment.

One good thing about the Geneva Freeport is: it prioritises nothing above their client’s property. The bad thing is also, precisely, that it prioritises nothing above their client’s property.

Add confidentiality into the equation, it’s easy to see that there’s no inventory system for what’s in it or what belongs to whom. For the anonymity, it’s a reasonable price to pay when someone finds themselves keeping untaxed art, jewelry, or crates of wine left to age in a climate controlled environment. 

There are surveillance cameras only in the hallways, none inside the storerooms.

Wonwoo’s only advantage is knowing what the Mark Ernst looks like, and who it belongs to.

That’s as much as what a common employee would know, if not more.

Hardware-wise, there’s the barbed wire fences and double locks. It’s not too different from their apartment complex. The rooms are anti-earthquake with explosive-resistant doors. Swiss customs stand guard during visiting hours from 7:30 to 11:45 am, though they have an awfully long lunch break and reopen for visitors afterwards until they close at 5 pm.

Those don’t matter when you’re invited in. 

For a fact, they will be. Junhui’s papers will make sure of that.

In the end, it leaves Wonwoo with the main task of erasing their tracks. They don’t need his help entering the freeport. 

He memorises the scope of each CCTV camera and their locations; plans a few routes for escape. He prepares new shell companies in Liechtenstein and Gibraltar to receive their funds. 

He pays six months in advance on top of the 10% deposit to the place he rented with an old landlord in person. He arranges mail forwarding service. He takes out the remaining cash from his accounts and cancels the last cards before cutting them up. He discontinues his membership with drug stores and supermarkets. He ends the contract with his mobile carrier and buys a prepaid sim for a brick phone. He memorises numbers of contacts by heart.

They’re good to go.

The day they leave for Geneva, snow falls across Seoul for the first time that winter. It starts snowing at 2am and doesn’t stop.

On the flight, he worries he might have underpacked and counts whether he has enough Francs in his pockets to buy a possible coat. He takes some meds and forces himself to sleep, because he won’t be able to do so in the next 24 hours.

As it turns out, Switzerland’s warmer than Wonwoo remembers. His breath rises up in a white puff when he yawns, only because it’s chilly with the rain. 

They check into a transit hotel without clearing the customs and ask the receptionist to do it under another name.

The receptionist assures them, “Of course. We always handle your personal information with discretion.”

Or so what Hansol translates to them on the short lift ride up.

Their floor is quiet. As soon as they enter, Hansol walks over to the windows that overlook the runway and a glimpse of the city. He pulls the curtains closed over them.

“The selling point here is the panoramic view,” Chan says.

“Sorry,” Hansol says with a straight face.

They begin to unpack.

The silence is tense. They have less than twenty four hours before their returning flight. 

Wonwoo’s heart hammers with each key he presses to wake his computer. In front of him, Joshua, Hansol and Chan put on Régal Le Coultre employee windbreakers and caps.

Seungcheol opens the compartment for the cameras and wires. He’s halfway through calibrating them before there’s a knock on the door.

They freeze. Chan looks into the peephole. He mouths, _Mingyu-hyung_. Seungcheol nods.

The door unlocks to Mingyu, Seokmin, and Soonyoung. They’re dressed to look rich—watches, coats, buffed dress shoes. The discrepancy between them and the rest is not lost on Wonwoo.

They start clipping the devices on them. They hide one wire each behind the lapel of Mingyu’s blazer, on the inside of Soonyoung’s turtleneck, and under the starched collar of Seokmin’s shirt. The cameras are embedded in glasses and tie clips. 

“Seokmin’s wire needs some adjustment,” Seungcheol says, lifting one side of the headphones from his ear. “Too much noise.”

Wonwoo changes locations and pushes the wire under the knot of his tie. He asks, “Better?”

“Much better,” Seungcheol says. He frowns at the computer. “Soonyoung’s too.”

Wonwoo steps towards him. He reaches for the wire, hidden against the side of his neck. Soonyoung jumps.

“Sorry,” Wonwoo says, slipping his fingers through the collar and finding warm skin. The cream-coloured turtleneck wraps snug around Soonyoung’s throat, like a grip.

The fact is now Wonwoo has a hand on him.

“It’s fine,” Soonyoung mutters. “Your hand’s just cold.”

They fix it near the hollow above his clavicle with mask tape. Wonwoo pulls his hands back. Soonyoung’s eyes follow, darting from knuckle to wrist, then to Wonwoo’s face.

Wonwoo allows it for a second. He looks away and asks Seungcheol, “Better?”

“Yes.” He pulls off his headphones. “Testing earpieces now. One, two.”

“One, two,” Mingyu echoes. He adjusts it. “No problem.”

“Remember to look closely at the labels on the crates. Pay attention to the doors. Lean close like you’re an old man. We need to see it on camera.”

Seokmin smoothes out his tie. He nods.

The first thing he hears when the three of them arrive at the freeport is: _“Thank you for visiting. We prioritise nothing above our client’s property.”_

They receive a tour around the facilities: through the cargo lifts, down hallways lined by steel-reinforced walls. 

_“The humidity here is kept at around 50% and the temperature from 18 to 20 degrees,”_ says the staff.

Wonwoo sketches out the floorplan meanwhile, pen moving faster than his mind can register. Unit 032: Aramax Delivery Unlimited. Unit 080: Fract SA. Unit 105: TNT international mail. Joshua and Chan standguard beside the computer, tracing the doors and paths to exit. 

The journey stalls at their storage unit. The staff takes out a chain of keys, conveniently labelled with the corresponding number. With that and a 4-digit passcode, the door unlocks.

 _“The security is impressive,”_ Seokmin says.

Chan snorts. He cracks open a can of coffee and leans against the wall.

 _“Yes. Those doors are explosive-proof,”_ the staff says as they enter the room and begins to explain, waving at the ceiling. _“Here, we don’t use sprinklers. Our fire suppression system is specially designed—oxygen will be sucked out from the room and replaced with inert gas.”_

Soonyoung hums. _“Don’t want water damage.”_

_“That’s right.”_

_“What gas do you use?”_ Mingyu asks.

_“We use a mix of nitrogen and argon.”_

_“Is there any warning before it happens?”_ Mingyu asks. _“Can people escape before all oxygen’s sucked out?”_

 _“Of course. There’s a ten-second warning before the gas replacement starts. Our staff is well trained on fire escape routes. They will be able to guide you to safety.”_ The staff laughs. _“As I said, there’s nothing we prioritise above your property.”_

_“Not even the staff?”_

The staff stage whispers, _“The insurance here is unlimited.”_

They all laugh. That part isn’t in the security manual.

Seokmin turns to Soonyoung. They start talking in Japanese, which Wonwoo only knows words here and there: _hotel; tomorrow; understood_. 

_“Thank you,”_ Seokmin says. _“Sakano-san would like to know if his painting will be stored in this unit. He has arranged for it to be transported here with Régal Le Coultre tomorrow.”_

_“I’m not too sure. It depends on their arrangement. They have a few storage spaces, and this is only one of them.”_

_“I see,”_ Seokmin says. He exchanges a few more words with Soonyoung. _“Thank you.”_

The three of them eat at a caviar bar in the departure transit zone to keep up with their appearances. Wonwoo leaves his seat when they move onto the oyster platter. He’s not a big fan of seafood.

“Do you have kimchi?” Soonyoung asks when he comes back.

“Do you _think_ I have kimchi?” Chan asks.

“I usually bring canned ones.” Soonyoung looks around restlessly. He chugs some water. “The caviar life isn’t for me.”

That evening, they gather in their room to go over the plan. 

“The Max Ernst’s in unit 091,” Wonwoo says. He circles it on the floor plan. “The nearest unit rented by Régal Le Coultre is 046, diagonally opposite to it.”

“Which cameras capture that part of the corridor?”

“29, 30, and 31.” Wonwoo looks at Chan. “It’s hard to just delete footage of just those cameras. I’d rather you take the whole hard drive. I’ll delete their cloud storage.”

“How about entry to unit 091?” Joshua asks. “I assume the passcode’s the same.”

“Either we get the keys, or we pick the lock.” Hansol crosses his arms. “What’s the code?”

“One seven two five,” Mingyu says. “It’s the same. At least on the same floor. He let us into another room with that code.”

“What kind of lock?” Joshua asks.

“Deadbolt. Lockable thumbturn,” Soonyoung says.

Joshua smiles. “You’d think they’d get better locks for explosive-proof doors.” 

A door is nothing without a lock. Or a bad lock.

It may as well be wide open.

“People are clever like that,” Wonwoo says.

Morning arrives. The sun doesn’t rise until 8am. They buy breakfast from one of the few cafes and wait, drilling and redrilling the plan into their brains.

6 hours before his flight, the painting leaves the cargo dock, ETA 16 minutes. Soonyoung and Mingyu set off in the free shuttle provided by the warehouse.

They arrive at the freeport and go through the turnstile gates. A customs officer smiles at them in recognition.

 _“Good afternoon, Mr Yuuji,”_ the old man says.

A huff of laughter. _“Good afternoon,”_ Soonyoung says back.

_“Your delivery just arrived. It’s at the loading bay.”_

_“Thank you.”_

It’s the same route as yesterday: through the cargo lifts, the concrete lined corridors, the heavy doors. In the middle of the room, there’s a workbench. The isothermal wooden crate stands right next to it as Joshua takes out the screws with an electric drill.

Hansol walks over. Together, they remove one of the panels that make up the box. Next, they take out the painting, wrapped in antacid paper. They lay it flat on the surface. With gloved hands, they peel back its packaging.

It’s a shock of colour under the bleak overhead lights. 

They gather around the table, studying, or pretending to. Soonyoung and Mingyu exchange a few words in Japanese.

 _“Is it possible to put this in a showroom?”_ Soonyoung asks.

The staff smiles. _“Of course. There are a few more paintings lined up ahead, but it could be arranged.”_

 _“You may contact my lawyer for that.”_ Soonyoung gestures at Mingyu, who hands over a business card. 

Wonwoo counts the seconds. He trips the fire alarm.

There’s no default transmission to first responders. Everyone here wants to keep everything under the wraps, which just works fine for them.

A growing panic floods over the staff’s face. He dashes to the door and glances back, as if deciding whether he has time to herd them away.

At the seven second mark, he dashes out.

Five seconds. The four of them take three deep breaths, as practiced.

Zero seconds. There’s a hiss through the vents. Joshua lifts the compartment at the bottom of the crate and pulls out the rebreathers. He throws one to each of them and wears one himself.

5 hours and 11 minutes before his flight, they make their way across the hallway to unit 091. Wonwoo can see them from three different angles on cameras 29, 30, and 11.

 _“I unplugged the hard drive,”_ Chan says through the wire.

“Good,” Seungcheol says. “Where are you now?”

 _“Surveillance room,”_ Chan says. _“Are they ready to go?”_

“Picking the lock,” Seungcheol says, eyes on the screen. At that moment, the door opens. “Ten minutes.”

_“Be there in five.”_

Inside storage unit 091, the contents are more or less the same. Wooden crates fill the shelves and line the walls. They walk between aisles and check the labels with thumbnails of the actual paintings.

Mingyu makes a muffled sound. He found it.

“It’s near Mingyu,” Wonwoo says. 

They pull the crate out with a hand truck. The sirens flash above their heads, flooding the room in shocks of red and white. Joshua switches on the electric drill and removes sixteen screws at the corners where the wooden planks meet. He and Soonyoung each grab a side of the painting and lay it on the workbench, face down on bubble wrap and glassine paper Hansol covered the surface with.

First goes the wire backing. Next, they loosen the screws that fix the canvas to the frame. They throw the loose weld tabs back into the crate and start to lift twenty four staples with flathead screwdrivers.

5 hours 1 minute before his flight, all staples are gone. The canvas is free of its stretcher bars, and Hansol rolls it up as they tidy the place. He slides it into a cardboard tube. Everything they don’t bring away goes back into the crate. Joshua drives the screws back into their rightful places to reassemble it.

4 hours 57 minutes before his flight, the crate slips back into its original place. Chan is ready at the truck. 

Soonyoung and Mingyu take three deep breaths, as trained, and pull off their rebreathers. They run to the fire exits at the end of the west wing. 

Hansol carries the painting and Joshua the extra rebreathers. They make it to the loading bay and attach the cardboard tube to the underside of the truck.

Nobody notices, too busy in their panic. The gates are free of customs officers. They drive away without a hitch.

4 hours and 31 minutes before his flight, Joshua, Chan, and Hansol return to the hotel first. They take off their earpieces, cameras, and mics. Seungcheol locks them away.

“They’re not back?” Joshua asks, pulling off his Régal Le Coultre uniform.

“Someone wants them to stay,” Wonwoo says, clicking around.

Ever since Mingyu and Soonyoung escaped from the building, they’ve been preoccupied. Soonyoung has been brought to a room with hot coffee and chocolates. 

He was told to wait.

Twenty minutes passed. Wonwoo has yet to hear another word from the other end.

4 hours and 7 minutes before his flight, he gets up and paces to the window. He peels back a corner of the curtain.

The sky is dark outside. It’s after working hours for the warehouse now. Wonwoo breathes out heavily and crosses his arms. A Lufthansa flight takes off from the runway.

“His flight’s in three hours,” Seungcheol says. “What the hell are they trying to do?”

There’s a click across the line. It’s someone near Soonyoung.

_“Mr Yuuji?”_

_“Sakano,”_ Soonyoung says.

 _“Mr Sakano,”_ a man says. _“I’m the director of the freeport. We’re deeply sorry for today’s incident.”_

Wonwoo walks back to his computer. On the screen, he sees an old man sitting across Soonyoung in a dark grey suit.

There’s a pause in the conversation.

_“Is everything alright?”_

_“Yes, absolutely.”_ The old man leans back. _“It was from one of the rooms reserved for art restoration. We believe it to be fumes from the solvents.”_

 _“That’s good to hear.”_ Another pause. “ _You prioritise nothing above your client’s property, indeed.”_

The old man smiles. He clasps his hands together on the mahogany desk.

 _“That’s what we do.”_ He twiddles his thumbs for a moment, then sits up straight to pull something from a drawer. _“Again, we’re very sorry to cause you any distress.”_

Soonyoung chuckles. _“Let’s see.”_ He crosses his legs. _“Must I not tell?”_

_“We’d like to handle this with as much discretion as possible, Mr Sakano, and that includes your privacy.”_

A cheque slides across the varnished wood between them.

Wonwoo snorts. This feels like a scene out of a shitty movie. He looks over to Seungcheol and sees him rolling his eyes.

Soonyoung laughs, voice breezy. _“How about a Rembrandt?”_ He leans forward. _“I heard one arrived just yesterday.”_

_“Ah.”_ The old man splays out his hands with a helpless sigh. _“Well, Mr Sakano, you see…”_

“Get out of there,” Seungcheol says into the mic.

The command reaches Soonyoung. He sighs, uncrossing his legs.

 _“I understand,”_ he says and stands up. _“You can contact me through my lawyer.”_

Mingyu arrives first. He packs his wires and cameras in the foam-lined compartment of a suitcase. 

“Who left already?” He asks.

“Everyone except you, me, and Soonyoung,” Wonwoo says. He peeks out through the curtains. A Swissair flight takes off. Could be the one Seungcheol’s on. “When’s your flight?”

“Should I be telling you this?”

“It’s not hard to find out if you don’t.”

“It’s in an hour,” Mingyu says. He shifts his weight to his other foot. “I have to go now.”

“Then go,” Wonwoo says. He checks the gear once more. “You’ve returned everything. You can go.”

He expects Mingyu to turn around, but instead gets an armful of him in a bone crushing hug.

Wonwoo hasn’t stepped foot out of the hotel since he arrived, but he can smell the rain. It lingers when Mingyu pulls back, looking like he could cry.

“Take care, hyung,” he says, wiping his eyes. “Please learn how to cook. I don’t want you to die.”

He picks up his bag from the floor and leaves.

3 hours 2 minutes before his flight, a Qatar Airways flight takes off. The cloud storage folder for the CCTV footage today is wiped. Wonwoo turns off his computer and packs it away.

_Knock knock._

Wonwoo walks towards the door and looks into the peephole. He opens it.

Soonyoung walks in, not even waiting for the door to fall shut before digging a hand under his collar and yanking out the wire. Wonwoo takes his coat and digs out the camera embedded in the top button.

Once everything’s safe and sound, they zip the suitcase closed. Wonwoo stands it up by the door, at the ready any moment he chooses to leave. When he turns around to face Soonyoung, he’s surprised to find him much closer, close enough that he catches him by the crook of his elbow.

2 hours 54 minutes, Soonyoung pushes him up against the wall.

He kisses like a crash. Wonwoo braces a hand against the wall behind him to keep himself from slipping. It’s not working too well—everything’s melting together, irrevocably, like a bucket of paint being poured into another. Wonwoo shivers when Soonyoung’s hand makes its way downwards.

“Wait.” He breaks the kiss. To Soonyoung’s searing eyes, he explains, “I haven’t showered.”

“No time,” Soonyoung says and works on Wonwoo’s belt.

His hands are shaking, so Wonwoo does it instead.

Soonyoung kisses him again and begins to stroke him. The heat of his touch still shocks Wonwoo, despite knowing his tendency to run hot since the very day they met, sitting outdoors in the cold without his coat.

Then Soonyoung kneels down, hands steadying his hips against the wall. He opens his mouth and takes Wonwoo in, all the way from tip to base.

“Fuck,” Wonwoo moans, the back of his head knocking against the wall. He stares at the ceiling to catch his breath, then down at Soonyoung, at his hair falling across his forehead. With a shaking hand, he brushes it back.

Soonyoung peers up at him, eyes red and gleaming. He reaches down to palm himself, and Wonwoo comes into his mouth without warning.

2 hours 39 minutes. 

That’s awfully fast of him. Maybe he’s getting old, or maybe something’s wrong with him.

Soonyoung doesn’t seem to mind, getting up on his feet to kiss Wonwoo, pushing the salty taste of him into his mouth. 

It’s messy, an intrinsic quality of body fluids. He opens his mouth wider.

“Didn’t know I was that good,” Soonyoung murmurs. 

Wonwoo bites down on his lip, then licks over it. Soonyoung sighs heavily through his nose.

“Do you think we have all night?” Wonwoo says between them.

It’s meant more to provoke than to ask. Soonyoung pulls back, enough to look at him but not enough to focus. His gaze darts between Wonwoo’s eyes.

It lasts a second too long.

“No,” he whispers at last. He swallows, and repeats, voice cracking, “No.”

Something’s beginning to bleed into the edges of this. They don’t have the time. 

Wonwoo bites the inside of his cheek and pulls Soonyoung towards the bed. He sits down on the edge, jeans half off, and pulls Soonyoung closer by the belt loops so he can stand between his thighs. The belt buckle clicks as he yanks at the leather. He can return the favour.

“You don’t have to,” Soonyoung says, breaking off into a gasp when Wonwoo takes no heed and tugs him out of his briefs.

“What do you want then?”

Again, Wonwoo meant to provoke more than to ask, but Soonyoung works in a way that’s both predictable and not.

He pulls away for a second to dig through his coat. As soon as he gets the right pocket, he tosses condoms and lube onto the bed.

Soonyoung returns to him, standing between his knees. 

Wonwoo has to tilt back to look up at him. “Where did you even get those?” This time, he genuinely wants an answer.

“Duty free shop,” Soonyoung says.

“Was that what took you so long?”

Instead of answering, Soonyoung bends down and kisses him, warm and pervasive. It doesn’t take long for him to climb on top of Wonwoo, pressing him into the mattress with his weight.

“Ambitious, aren’t you?” Wonwoo bares his teeth when Soonyoung grinds down. The fabric of his trousers is rough on his skin.

Soonyoung buries his face in his shoulder, breath fanning hot over the side of his neck. He whines a little, and it occurs to Wonwoo that he might be embarrassed.

It lasts only for a few rolls of his hips, then he picks back up again.

“Can you take it?” He asks, gripping Wonwoo’s side to pull him closer. The warmth of his palm brands his skin. What he says next sounds wishful. “Tell me you can.”

2 hours 30 minutes.

Wonwoo grabs the packet of lube and rips it open. It spills over his hand and the white sheets. He reaches down to smear some on himself, then grabs Soonyoung’s hand to empty the rest.

“Hurry up,” he tells Soonyoung.

He complies, at least at the beginning, starting with two fingers. Wonwoo grunts at the burn, glad that he does this enough to know it’s far from his limit. It _is_ far from his limit, seeing how he’s dripping all over himself even untouched.

“God, Wonwoo.” Soonyoung looks at the drops of precome. He bends down and licks a stripe up his navel, catching them on his tongue.

2 hours 26 minutes. Soonyoung seems to be taking his time, watching his own fingers sink into Wonwoo with glazed eyes. They’re still at two, even when the stretch has long subsided.

“Give me three,” Wonwoo grits out, lifting his hips to speed up the process. Soonyoung’s eyes trail a tangible path up his body, settling like fog when they meet Wonwoo’s. “I can take it.”

Soonyoung gives it to him, sliding his fingers out halfway before wedging the third in. Wonwoo frowns.

“You’re tight.” He leans down with a kiss, soft and gentle. It makes up for the discomfort, only just buffered by the pressure on his prostate. He kisses him again and murmurs, “so tight.”

He’d make a good lover. Wonwoo entertains this thought over the time of another kiss, the same way he thinks about something unattainable, like the two Picassos destroyed in a museum fire.

He tugs at Soonyoung’s wrist to ease out the fingers. The kiss is broken when Wonwoo turns around, knees on the bed.

Quietly, he waits, head rested on an unused pillow. Soonyoung’s knees dips into the mattress behind him. The lube in his hand makes slick sounds over their breathing as he strokes himself. The crinkle of foil follows.

2 hours 15 minutes. Soonyoung rubs his tip over Wonwoo before pressing inside.

Wonwoo turns his face into the pillow. He tries to keep his inhales and exhales steady, gripping the fresh sheets. The burn sinks deep into him, like alcohol on raw flesh or a hand pressing on broken rib.

Belatedly, he realises he made a sound like a wounded animal, low and whining in the back of his throat. Soonyoung smooths a hand up his back, tentative as if not to hurt him.

“Fuck me,” Wonwoo says, pushing himself up on his forearms. He rocks back, until he can feel Soonyoung’s thighs pressing against the back of his own. “C’mon, move.”

Soonyoung lets out a shaky breath. He pulls back and pushes in, then again, and again; then again, and again, until they become even thrusts. 

“Is this okay?” He asks, voice breathy and wavering with the rhythm.

Wonwoo nods, dropping his head. 

2 hours 9 minutes. His normally cold hands have warmed up. There’s sweat on his skin now, though he’s not sure if it’s from himself or Soonyoung.

He’s aware of his cock steadily dripping onto the sheets. It’ll be a bitch to clean up, but that’s not his problem.

“Harder,” he breathes out. It’s a time like this he has bottomless appetite, and he wants it to hurt. He sneers. “Fuck me harder.”

Soonyoung’s grip tightens on his sides. One hand presses over his ribs, the way it did before, and Wonwoo shudders as his insides clench.

“Fuck,” Soonyoung mutters, breathless. He drapes himself over Wonwoo and kisses his nape, mouth hot and wet. “You feel so good, fuck.”

Wonwoo bites his own lip. It muffles most of his moans as he reaches down to stroke himself. And before he can even bring himself closer to the edge, it halts.

Soonyoung stops. Wonwoo tries to move by himself, but finds Soonyoung’s arms circled around his middle. At the back near his shoulder blade, Soonyoung’s hair tickles. Over his skin, Soonyoung’s deep breaths spread.

Wonwoo stills. He stares at his hands digging into the mattress, hyper aware of his bangs hanging in front of his face, jumping to the time of his heartbeat.

“What are you doing?” Wonwoo asks.

The arms around his middle only tighten. Soonyoung sighs, rocking them slowly without pulling out or pushing in.

His cheek is pressed against Wonwoo’s back, soft against the bone. It moves when he talks, as does the vibration of his voice from his chest. “I’ll miss you, Wonwoo-yah,” he says. He lifts off enough to kiss the spot, speak into the skin. “I’ll miss you so much.”

Wonwoo clenches his fists. He wants to claw out of his own skin.

He doesn’t. What he does is straighten up, getting Soonyoung off him. He reaches back and finds Soonyoung’s hair, which he pulls, bringing their faces close.

“We don’t have time,” he reminds him.

Soonyoung’s eyes dim. They flit over Wonwoo’s face, for a few seconds, before he presses their lips together and begins moving again. 

He kisses sloppily, moves in the same way, mouth open and trailing spit down his jaw. His hands roam over Wonwoo’s chest, his abdomen, his groin.

His thrusts turn sharp and arrhythmic before he bites down on Wonwoo’s shoulder, shaking as he comes, arms tightening around Wonwoo’s body. It’s the closest Wonwoo’s been held by another person. 

It comes to a stall. Soonyoung catches his breath, sweaty bangs tickling Wonwoo’s nape. When he regains his senses, he reaches down to touch Wonwoo.

His hand feels distinctly different from Wonwoo’s own. Smoother, tighter, probably the way he’s used to touching himself.

Soonyoung’s going soft, but he’s not pulling out. Wonwoo clenches around him, rocking between his hand and his cock. He shudders through his second orgasm with a pathetic sound and watches his come spill across Soonyoung’s hand.

1 hour 57 minutes. Wonwoo reaches behind and grabs the base of Soonyoung’s cock before easing it out. They work in relative silence, discarding the packaging and condom. When it’s done, Soonyoung stands at the end of the bed and stares at him.

“Get dressed,” Wonwoo says. He turns on the shower and lets the water run. “When’s your flight?”

Soonyoung zips up his fly and does his belt. He adjusts his hair. “In less than an hour.”

“You should go.”

Wonwoo doesn’t wait for an answer before stepping into the shower. He scrubs himself until he turns red, skin tender from the scalding water. He digs into himself and cleans out anything that hadn’t been there an hour ago.

1 hour 45 minutes. Soonyoung’s nowhere to be seen.

Wonwoo dries his hair and jams a beanie over his head. He wears gloves and takes out the trash to the common bin by the elevator. Opposite to the emergency exit, he finds the cleaning supplies cabinet. He takes the detergent and a towel back to his room and proceeds to wipe down every possible surface. Once, then twice.

He knows how to get semen off most surfaces—with salt water—but he doesn’t have the time. It won’t matter, probably: sheets are the things hotel cleaners change every time.

Before he goes, he takes one last look at himself in the mirror. He looks like shit.

59 minutes. He hangs the “PLEASE CLEAN ROOM” sign on the handle. The door clicks shut.

Wonwoo sleeps through all fourteen hours of his flight. 

2 years, 3 months and 9 days before the statute of limitations is up. Wonwoo returns to Korea and moves into his new place. He uses the door code he’s given and begins living the life of an aspiring author in recluse.

The place he’s in has little else to do. There are three local schools: elementary, middle, and high. There’s a corner shop that doesn’t carry much and closes at six. 

In the grand scheme of things, three years isn’t all that long. They used nine months of it for the preparation of the Max Ernst. If he extrapolates the rest from their usual activity, they’re missing out on three to four trips at most.

In less than three month’s time, he has finished every book he brought with him. He rereads a few, even, and ends up donating them to the local school library when there’s no more surprise. Every week, he cycles an hour or two into town for groceries. Biweekly, he gets letters from the mail forwarding service, if he has any. Every month, he changes to a new prepaid sim card. Every two months, he calls the lawyer to check on Soonyoung’s trust foundation. It’s running well.

It’s a routine that he’s developing from scratch.

Wonwoo likes routines, he discovers. He likes that they require the same input to produce a consistent output. He likes it much better than the ever changing plans they had to follow for operations, and frankly speaking, he’s not sure he can go back into lifting art after this.

He looks at local job listings, because savings can only last him so long if he doesn’t go back to stealing art. Perhaps he can teach old people how to read Hangul at community centres, or he can work at the IT info desk in one of the schools. They don’t require much qualification apart from the skills one can demonstrate.

It’s easy to get lost in hiding. 

In passing, though, he does think about the others—whether Minghao’s working on the Max Ernst replica as promised, somewhere in the world; if Mingyu’s helping him with stretching canvases and sending pigments for testing.

But those thoughts don’t last long. Often, he only remembers Mingyu’s final pleading. He gives in to it one day, passing by a bookshop on his way to the homeware store. He walks in and buys a cookbook for the most basic of dishes.

1 year, 10 months and 30 days before the statute of limitations runs out. Wonwoo meets a stray who hisses at him at the corner store.

It’s a tiny thing, the size of his palm, covered in shaggy black fur. As Wonwoo crouches down, it hisses at him again, baring its small but sharp teeth.

He looks up at the store owner, an ahjumma laying out chilli peppers to dry in the sun. “Is this kitten yours?”

“What kitten?” She takes a step closer. The stray backs away, shackles rising. It doesn’t run, though, standing there with a bushy tail. The ahjumma waves a gloved hand dismissively. “Never seen it before. Maybe its mother is somewhere nearby.”

Wonwoo nods. He stays there for ten more minutes and decides to go buy some canned food on his next trip to town.

A week later, armed with chicken flavoured kitty food and a plastic bowl, he goes back to the corner store and finds that the stray hasn’t made an appearance since.

Well. At least he’ll have one less thing to miss when he leaves.

1 year, 9 months and 8 days. There’s another stray.

This time, it’s a three-legged tabby. It looks much older, from what Wonwoo knows about cats. It sits in the sun, right beside the shadow under the basket of tangerines.

Wonwoo cycles back home and gets the canned chicken. He’s relieved to find the cat still lying there, enjoying the early summer afternoon.

At the sound of the can opening, it blinks open its eyes, pupil dilating. It stands up and walks over with a limp.

It meows up at him, rubbing its tail against Wonwoo’s ankle.

“Is this your cat?” Wonwoo asks, setting down the can.

The ahjumma pokes her head out. “No. It’s been here the past few days though.”

“Is that so?” Wonwoo looks around them. There’s no bowl for food or water. The cat has no collar. He crouches down to face it. “Are you hungry?” The cat keeps eating. “Tasty?”

The can is cleared off in less than two minutes. He pours some water he brought from home into the empty container and receives another meow before the cat goes back to its spot to sit down. It begins licking its toes.

The next day, Wonwoo visits the corner store again. He pays for a can of coke, leaves it in his bike basket, and opens the canned chicken.

As predictable as hearing thunder after a lightning, the tabby emerges from nowhere and half-runs towards Wonwoo. When he holds the can above its head, it paws at Wonwoo’s jeans.

Sighing, he crouches down and places the can between them. The cat digs right into it.

“You only like me for the food,” Wonwoo says.

The cat keeps eating.

Much like yesterday, the can is cleared off pristine. One thing different is it climbs onto Wonwoo’s lap, kneading and purring. 

Wonwoo winces. “Someone should trim your claws.”

The cat ignores him.

The next few days see the same things happening. The post-meal play sessions last longer, sometimes stretching into sunset. 

Today, when Wonwoo stands up to leave, the cat follows him.

It stops when Wonwoo stops. It walks when Wonwoo walks.

Wonwoo goes back to it and bends down, scratching between its ears.

“You shouldn’t trust us,” he says. The cat purrs. “How did you survive this long being so friendly?”

The cat meows, blinking slowly at him.

Wonwoo gives a final pat and straightens up. He tells the cat, “Be careful out here.”

He gets on his bike and starts pedalling. A few seconds later, he twists around to look behind him. The cat is sitting in the middle of the path staring at him.

Wonwoo, despite his better instincts, goes into a pet shop on his next trip to town. He buys a litter box the first day, a 10 kg bag of litter the next day, and a 5 kg bag of kibble for old cats the third. It’s good exercise.

The decision to buy a carrier bag and put the tabby in it feels bigger than it is.

In a way, indeed. Wonwoo will no longer be able to leave for prolonged periods of time, unlike when he left the country for museums in other countries. If he does travel, he’ll have to bring the cat with. If the cat gets sick, he’ll have to bring it to the vet.

He opens the carrier at the entryway after taking off his shoes. Cautiously, the cat steps out. It begins to sniff around—Wonwoo’s suitcase, his shoes, the folded up bedding in the corner, his mug. At last, two bowls on the floor.

Wonwoo sits down next to it as it devours the kibble. He doesn’t expect an answer, but he still says, “You’ll have to let me know if you don’t like it here, okay?”

1 year, 9 month and 1 day. Wonwoo brings the cat to a vet in town. 

Yes, he’d like to have the cat vaccinated. 

Yes, he’d like to have the cat checked up for spaying. 

No, he’s not looking for microchipping service.

What’s her name?

He ends up naming her _Dahaeng_ on the spot. It’s the first word that comes to mind, and he’s always wanted to have a cat with a happy name.

On the bike ride back, Wonwoo asks her, “Do you like the name?”

She meows back from her place inside the carrier, in the basket.

Wonwoo smiles. 

“You have to tell me if you don’t like it.” He huffs as he paddles up a slope. “Got it?”

1 year, 8 months and 14 days. Wonwoo makes his bimonthly call to the lawyer to check on the trust foundation. After the third ring, the other end picks up.

_“Hello, Kim Seokjin speaking.”_

There’s a tinkle of piano, then the squealing laughter of a child.

“Hello,” Wonwoo says. “I’m Wonwoo. Just calling for an update on the foundation.”

 _“Oh, Wonwoo,”_ Seokjin says. There’s some crunching from the other end. _“I’ve been waiting for your call. Let me finish this first.”_

“Sure.”

More crunching.

 _“I’m back. The foundation’s running, same old,”_ Seokjin says. _“Last month, though.”_

“Yes?”

 _“Well, it happened just yesterday too.”_ Some crunching. Seokjin’s words become muffled. _“There was a delivery to the PO box.”_

Dahaeng rubs her tail against his calf. Wonwoo stares hard out of the window, gripping the phone tight.

“What was it?”

 _“A box of meokgol pears,”_ Seokjin says. Some crunching. _“There were only three though.”_

Wonwoo blinks.

Pears. Not bloody body parts.

“What?”

 _“Then yesterday, another box arrived. There were six this time.”_ More crunching. _“I’m actually eating one of them right now.”_

Dahaeng meows. Wonwoo looks at her, then bends down to pick her up. He begins to pace along the window.

“Just pears?” Wonwoo asks. “Nothing else? Did you check the packaging?”

_“Yes. Just pears.”_

Seokjin parses, giving him room to explain. The line goes relatively quieter—faint notes from a piano, a child giggling, someone else talking.

Wonwoo doesn’t think he can.

He asks instead, “How are you and hyung? And the kids?”

Seokjin snorts. _Crunch._ _“Do you really wanna know, or are you just being polite?”_

Wonwoo laughs. Dahaeng squirms in his arms, so he lets her go.

“I’ll call again soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 picasso paintings were destroyed in the 1978 fire of the museum of modern art, rio de janeiro


	3. pears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * passive thoughts of death at the end of section starting with "3 months 13 days". to avoid, skip to "3 months 9 days".
> 


The next month, nine pears arrive.

The month after that, a single pear in a spacious box.

Then two.

One.

Six deliveries over half a year, each with a different number of pears.

His phone calls with Seokjin now mostly centre around the topic of pears instead of the trust foundation.

 _“Can you ask whoever’s sending those to send something else?”_ Seokjin says. _Crunch_. _“It’s been half a year. I like strawberries more, actually.”_ _Crunch._ _“Maybe some Jeju tangerines, too.”_

Wonwoo pats Dahaeng, who’s fast asleep on his lap.

“That’s assuming I know who sent them.”

Seokjin snorts. _“Yeah.”_ _Crunch._ _“Assuming, of course.”_

Two more deliveries: one of an empty box, one of three pears.

After that, nothing. Not even an empty box.

1 year and 18 days before the statute of limitations runs out. They receive nothing for the third consecutive month.

Seokjin hums. _“Maybe whoever sent them sensed I’ve really had enough.”_ _Crunch._

“Aren’t you eating a pear right now?”

 _“That’s beside the point.”_ _Crunch. “I was very disappointed when an empty box arrived.”_

The call ends. Wonwoo sits on the floor and stares at the numbers: 3, 6, 9, 1, 2, 1, 0, 3.

It could be a phone number, but it’s one digit short. He can try calling, adding on an extra number from 0 to 9 at the end. But there’s no area code that starts with 3.

Maybe he should shuffle the numbers?

But this went on for too many months. It’d be foolish to not change phone numbers for so long.

Wonwoo goes to the library in town the next day. He logs into the public computer and opens up the homepage of the national post service.

He searches for post codes in Namyangju first. That’s where the pears came from.

12103 points towards a certain Byeollae-dong. That leaves him with 369.

He scrolls down the list of addresses under the same post code. There’s nothing in the street number or land lot that matches 369.

Wonwoo crosses it out. He moves onto the next permutation.

21033\. Incheon, Bupyeong-gu, Cheongcheon-dong. Nothing matches 691. Crossed out.

10336\. Ilsan, Goyang-si, Jungsan-dong. Nothing matches 912. Crossed out.

03369\. Seoul, Eunpyeong-gu, Nokbeon-dong. There’s a land lot number—12-1. Wonwoo circles it.

33691\. No match.

36912\. Gyeongbuk-do, Mungyeong-si, Mungyeong-eup. Land lot number 103 has a registered address. Wonwoo circles it.

Wonwoo stares at the numbers. He flips them around: 3, 0, 1, 2, 1, 9, 6, 3.

He runs through the postal codes again and end up with two valid addresses:

12196\. Namyangju-si, Hwado-eup, Changhyeon-ri. Street number 330.

33012\. Incheon, Yeonsu-gu, Dongchun-dong. Land lot number 196. 

A total of four addresses.

He looks them up in satellite view. He crosses out one that shows up as a factory building, then reconsiders. He might be wrong—it could be some kind of workplace.

That leaves him with the addresses in Mungyeong, Namyangju, Incheon, and Seoul.

Seoul goes to the last. It’s not a good place for hiding.

He moves Namyangju to the third on the list, because that’s just too obvious.

1 year before the statute of limitations runs out. Wonwoo wears a mask and opens the windows wide. Specks of dust dance in the air as he clears the 5-pyeong one-room he’s been renting for the past nine months. He wipes down the shelves with a wet cloth. All his belongings are in the trunk and backseat of the rental car.

He closes the windows before leaving.

As he drives, Dahaeng wiggles in the carrier bag. Wonwoo reaches a hand to unzip it, eyes on the road. She immediately pokes her head out, turning to catch the passing scenery.

“Do you know where we’re going?” He asks.

Dahaeng doesn’t answer him. She stretches her neck to peer over the dashboard.

“We’re going on a trip,” Wonwoo explains as they go through a toll gate. Dahaeng startles at the voice from the contactless payment unit on the windshield, announcing the fee.

They stop at rest stations along the way. Wonwoo puts out two bowls and fills one with kibble and the other with water. Dahaeng feasts on it and takes a shit in the grass. Wonwoo dutifully cleans it up.

They go all the way until they reach Incheon, the furthest of four addresses. Wonwoo checks in at a pet-friendly guesthouse that accepts one of the passports Junhui’s prepared for him. They don’t ask too many questions before they show him his room.

Wonwoo takes out the disposable litter pads and puts one in the corner. He fills the bowl with bottled water and plops down on the floor.

Dahaeng pads up to him. She nudges her face against Wonwoo’s hand. 

“We’ll take a rest and go for a walk,” he tells her.

11 months and 30 days. They check out of the guesthouse.

Wonwoo hasn’t stepped foot in Incheon since he returned from Geneva. He doesn’t miss it all that much.

At least not the place, physically.

He stops by the address and sees a family of three go into the house. He drives away and fills the gas before going onto the highway.

As they pass through the toll gates, Wonwoo pulls the mask over his nose.

There are CCTVs everywhere. Wonwoo parks his car in an alley and puts a leash on Dahaeng.

“I’m hungry,” he says, to nobody in particular. Dahaeng turns to look at him. He rummages for the bag of cat food and the two bowls. “You’re hungry too, right?”

They get out of the car. Wonwoo puts the two bowls on the ground. While Dahaeng eats, he glances around.

It’s a nice neighbourhood, full of low rises and hairdressers and real estate companies. There’s even a laundromat not far away. Above the shopfronts, there are three windows sporting three big letters that read “Taekwondo.” The lights inside are on.

He buys takeaway braised chicken and eats it in the car.

At around 6pm, people begin to return from work. He watches them enter the apartment building, bringing a day’s worth of fatigue on them. He stays there until night falls, snacking on junk food he bought from 7-11.

There’s no sign of anybody he knows.

He drives away.

11 months and 29 days. He wakes up in a guesthouse run by an old couple right at the edge of the Onam reservoir.

Dahaeng takes great interest in the people who are fishing there. She bats at the baits unattached to hooks. Wonwoo stands there and nods politely when people coo at her.

At 10am, he checks out and drives to the address.

The area’s dotted with mostly single houses, cars parked at the driveway, and plots of land with the occasional greenhouse. Not far away, there’s a sign pointing towards a peach farm. 

A strange car such as his would stand out in a neighbourhood like this.

He parks the car and goes kill some time at a gardening shop nearby. Dahaeng enters sensory overload, sniffing at every plant she passes by. The shop owner laughs at her when she smells a peculiar one and opens her mouth to breathe.

At 3pm, an old lady goes into that house with a bag of groceries. An old man opens the door for her. The door shuts.

Wonwoo exits the shop and starts the car. He enters the next address.

The drive takes two hours. By the time he arrives at Mungyeong-eup, the sky is darkening. He buys instant dinner at the nearest convenience store and checks in at the minbak.

He’s shown a room with the barest basics: wooden heated floor, a thick mattress folded up in the corner, a coffee table, and a private bathroom.

He got what he paid for. Even if not, it’s only for one night.

11 month and 28 days. Wonwoo wakes up to Dahaeng sitting on his chest, full-volume meowing in his face. He gets up and, without bothering to wear his glasses, spoons two scoops of cat food into the empty bowl. Dahaeng leaps into action.

The fourth and last address waits for him. 

Wonwoo washes his face and stares into the mirror. He hasn’t shaved in weeks. 

If this happens to be the intended address, he should probably shave first, for whatever reason.

He lathers the shaving foam over his face and takes a disposable razor out of its packaging. The blade makes a quiet sound as it works over his face.

With a path of skin among the foam, he turns on the tap and rinses the blade. He works in rows along the line of his jaw until his face is clean.

He washes his face and looks into the mirror again. He looks weird, but younger. 

He throws the razor into the bin.

It’s a 24 minute drive to the address, according to the navigator. Wonwoo doesn’t quite want to go there yet, so he makes a detour to the town centre.

He finds a hairdresser nestled between a pharmacy and a local church, perfect for him in the mood for procrastination.

An hour later, he leaves with his ears and nape strangely chilly. He hadn’t realised his hair grew to be that long, but living in a small town without a social scene can do that to people.

He wanders around town and picks a galbi soup place for lunch. There are a few other customers, so Wonwoo chooses the quietest corner and eats with Dahaeng on his lap, as advised by the restaurant owner.

Dahaeng sniffs the beef broth. Wonwoo fends her approaching little mug away. It goes back and forth like that for an hour before Wonwoo decides to leave.

He drives along the path that leads to the destination, a house at the end of a branch off the main road. He’s entering the territory of bumfuck nowhere as trees lining the road grow denser.

The closer he is, the slower he wants to go.

The smooth pavement becomes gravel as he makes a left onto the driveway. Wonwoo drives slow, then comes to a complete stop when he spots someone by the house.

He pulls the handbrake and unbuckles his seatbelt. Dahaeng wants to follow him, but he shoos her to the backseat before exiting the car.

It’s cold outside. Wonwoo jams his hands into his pockets as he walks closer, shoes crunching on loose rocks, until he’s a few steps away.

He sees him now.

Soonyoung’s tending to what looks like a chicken pen with a basket in hand. He coos at a hen that’s wearing a tiny blue jacket. 

Wonwoo takes another step. His soles scrape against the ground, abrasive.

“Hello,” he attempts.

The sound alerts Soonyoung. He turns, looks around, and freezes. He stares, breath billowing in white puffs around him. 

The basket in his hand drops.

A few eggs tumble out and crack open. Wonwoo glances at the yolks and whites sliding across the ground, then at Soonyoung, rooted to the spot, eyes wide.

It only lasts a few seconds, then it’s gone.

As always, Soonyoung recovers. “Hi,” he says. A polite smile makes its way on his face, veiling the surprise. He picks up the basket. “It’s been a while.”

Wonwoo hums. He nods. “Quite a while.”

Soonyoung watches him, carefully, smile unfaltering. Wonwoo has a distinctive feeling of being pinned down on a board for dissection. 

That, too, lasts only a few seconds. 

“We should catch up,” Soonyoung begins, locking the chicken pen. He tilts his head at the house. “You wanna come in?” 

Wonwoo nods. He catches sight of a chicken, one in a pink jacket this time. “Can I bring my cat too?”

Soonyoung blinks. “You have a cat?”

“Yeah.”

He peers behind Wonwoo. “How did you get here?”

“By car.” Wonwoo steps aside to let him have a better look. 

Dahaeng has her paws on the dashboard. Her mouth is open in what looks like a loud meow, but Wonwoo can’t hear it from afar. The only thing he knows is: she really wants to come along. 

Soonyoung looks at the car. Wonwoo lets him. 

It’s a new looking car without a dash cam. The license plate probably looks innocuous enough, registered in the same province.

Soonyoung looks some more. 

“Okay,” he says, scanning around them slowly. He asks, “Do you have anything on you?” 

“No,” Wonwoo says. “My phone’s in the car. Battery out.”

Soonyoung stares at him for a few seconds. At last, he flits his eyes to the house.

Wonwoo goes get Dahaeng and locks the car. They step through the door into the entryway, where Soonyoung takes his shoes off, lining them up next to a pair of dirt-caked boots. Wonwoo toes off his own with Dahaeng in the crook of his arm.

Soonyoung steps into the kitchen. He pulls out two mugs, matching with tiger print. The whole time, he keeps Wonwoo in the corner of his eye. “What are you doing here?”

“Is that how you welcome guests?” 

“I don’t have guests,” Soonyoung says simply. He pours some cold barley tea. 

Wonwoo kneels down and pulls out a pack of wet wipes. He cleans Dahaeng’s paws before letting her go. 

She sniffs Soonyoung’s shoes, then hops cautiously over the step separating the rest of the house. She hobbles slowly, stops at the living room to inspect a shelf, and resumes her investigation.

Wonwoo looks away from her. He says, “I got your pears.”

Soonyoung stops in his movement, the jug of tea held in the air.

He frowns. A second later, he resumes pouring tea into the second mug. “Ah, those pears.” He sets down the jug. “I ordered them when I was in Tokyo.”

“Is that so.”

Soonyoung hums. He takes an apple from the fridge and cuts into it. A segment drops into the bowl. _Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._

Half an apple is gone. Soonyoung tilts his head and angles his knife. He asks, almost nonchalant, “Where did you get the car?”

Wonwoo answers, “Rented.”

Soonyoung raises his eyebrows. _Thunk._ “How about your computers?”

“Recycled.”

_Thunk._

“You’re joking.” He laughs. _Thunk._ “You? Tech free?”

Now, the whole apple is gone. Soonyoung washes his hands and dries them on a dishcloth. 

“I still have a gameboy.” Wonwoo stands up. He dusts his knees.

“Does it still work?” Soonyoung asks, bringing out a tray to hold the tea and bowl of sliced apples.

“Of course.” _Scratch. Scratch scratch scratch._ Wonwoo whips his head around and sees Dahaeng scratching the sofa. “Dahaeng-ah, no—”

He walks over and picks her up, disengaging her claws from the cloth covers. Meanwhile, Soonyoung sets down the tray on the low coffee table. 

“Your cat’s called Dahaeng?” He raises his brows, sitting down on the floor.

“Yeah.” Wonwoo looks down at Dahaeng, who is the face of innocence.

Shameless.

“Dahaeng.” Soonyoung leans back. “As in lucky, like _thank god?”_

“Right.” Wonwoo scoops her up in his arms like a baby. He sits legs crossed on the other side. “That’s her name.”

Nodding, Soonyoung takes an apple slice. His front teeth sink into the pale yellow of it. _Crunch._

“Cute,” he says. Carefully, he extends a hand, which Dahaeng sniffs. He smiles when she rubs her chin on his fingers. “Where did you find her?”

“Outside a shop.” Wonwoo takes a slice for himself. Dahaeng extends her neck to sniff at it. “She tried to follow me home.”

Soonyoung scratches her under her chin. “That’s really friendly for a stray.”

“She is.”

Wonwoo waits for the question— _How about you? Where did you come from?_

But it doesn’t come. At least not now, not when they clear off the bowl of apples.

Soonyoung gets up to go cut another. 

“I still can’t believe you chose to bring a gameboy,” Soonyoung says when he comes back. He takes the first slice, which spills juice past his lips when he bites down. He licks them clean. “I’d be bored out of my mind.”

“You can game with a lot of things,” Wonwoo says. “A calculator, for example.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah.”

Soonyoung snorts. “Like what? Addition?”

“Shooting game,” Wonwoo says. “I programmed one ages ago.”

“Are you sure we’re using the same kind of calculators?”

“The ones we use in high school.” Wonwoo rubs his nose. “If you have one, I can show you.”

Soonyoung looks at him. Something on his face changes, only that Wonwoo doesn’t know from what to what.

“I don’t think I do,” Soonyoung says, looking away. He stands up and stretches towards the ceiling with a sigh. He seems to consider for a second, before saying, “I’m gonna make dinner now. You want some?”

Wonwoo stays for dinner. 

Soonyoung lives like an old man, cooking dinner at five and eating at six. It’s not something he imagined either of them doing, but here they are.

“I used homemade kimchi for this.” Soonyoung sets down a steaming pot on the coffee table.

Wonwoo’s stomach grumbles traitorously. He hasn’t had a homemade meal since he started travelling.

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

“I asked my mum to write down all her recipes for me,” Soonyoung says, sitting down. He spoons the stew over his rice.

Wonwoo looks over at the fridge. There are memos stuck to the door, each covered with numbered steps in neat handwriting.

He can count eight. 

“Have you been eating the same dishes for a year?”

“That’s plenty enough,” Soonyoung says. He digs in, cheeks full. “I can afford to not repeat dishes for a week.”

The tone of Soonyoung’s voice raises suspicions. “But?”

“I like kimchi jjigae.”

“So you’ve been making the same dish for an entire year.”

“I make kimchi fried rice too,” Soonyoung retorts.

“Two dishes,” Wonwoo concludes.

“I can like something for a long, long time,” Soonyoung says loftily. He takes a bite. “Anyway, how’s the foundation?”

“It’s running well,” he says. Soonyoung hums. “They got your pears.”

“Did you not end up getting them?”

“No,” Wonwoo says. “The lawyer ate all twenty five.”

Soonyoung frowns. “Did he not send them to you?”

“He didn’t know where I was.”

Wonwoo waits for the question, again: _where were you?_

Only that Soonyoung doesn’t ask. He pouts, splitting the tofu with his chopsticks.

“Too bad,” he says. His mouth closes around the chopsticks. “Those pears are good.”

Wonwoo sees the red of his lips, dipping under the chopsticks as they slide out. He looks away. “I remember.”

They spend a few seconds in silence just eating. Soonyoung breaks it, bringing them away from the pears. 

“What have you been up to those days?” He asks.

“Raising a cat. Reading. Some writing.” Wonwoo gets some kimchi. “You?”

“Growing vegetables. Tending to the chickens.”

“Do you eat them?”

“The vegetables?” Soonyoung spoons some more stew. “Yeah. I used some this time.”

“How about the chickens?”

Soonyoung gasps. “Of course not.” He touches a hand to his chest, hurt evident on his face. “God. Are you heartless?” 

“I mean,” Wonwoo says. He shrugs a shoulder. A smile threatens to tug at his face. “If you keep chickens, it’s only logical.”

“It is not.” Soonyoung huffs. “They’re _family_. How could you do that to them?”

“Do you never eat chicken?”

“Not _my_ chickens.”

“So you’ll eat someone else’s.”

“Yes. And fried—” Dahaeng chooses that moment to jump onto his lap “—oh.”

Soonyoung’s hand hover in the air. Dahaeng turns a full 360 before finding a good spot on his thighs, taking his hesitation as permission to curl up.

Gingerly, Soonyoung lowers his hand. Dahaeng’s fluffy fur flattens under his palm.

She begins to purr.

“Wow,” Soonyoung mutters. He brushes a finger under Dahaeng’s chin, which makes her purr _visibly_. He glances up at Wonwoo. “Are you sure she’s a stray?”

“Used to be,” Wonwoo says.

Soonyoung looks down at her. He adopts his baby voice. “Is Wonwoo treating you well?” He strokes her head. “You can stay here if you want.”

Wonwoo snorts.

It turns out she might be staying. With Wonwoo, of course, because by the end of dinner she’s still on Soonyoung’s lap, sound asleep.

Wonwoo takes it upon himself to tidy the table. 

“Sorry,” Soonyoung says, sheepish as he sits on the floor while Wonwoo takes the dirty dishes to the kitchen.

“It’s okay,” Wonwoo says. He turns on the tap.

“I mean, sorry for keeping you here.” Soonyoung’s voice travels from the living room.

Wonwoo smiles at the dishes. “Because she likes you too much?”

“That I’m not sorry for.”

Wonwoo rinses away the red drops of stew on their bowls. He grabs a sponge and empties a pump of dish detergent on it.

He begins scrubbing.

By the time he’s finished with the dishes and dried his hands, Dahaeng’s still in the same place, Soonyoung in the same position.

“I have a set of spare mattresses and blankets,” Soonyoung says with an apologetic smile. “I can turn up the heating.”

Wonwoo lets out a quiet chuckle.

Dahaeng makes a noise. They both freeze, staring at her as she stretches out.

Then she curls up tighter and covers her eyes with her paws. That alone consolidates Soonyoung’s fate on the floor.

In actuality, it’s not as inevitable as they make it to be. Wonwoo can pick her up and say his goodbyes before leaving. Soonyoung can push her off.

But what are they if not indulging Dahaeng and then some?

“I’ll go get some stuff from the car,” Wonwoo whispers.

Soonyoung nods. He looks down at Dahaeng, hand hovering above her ears, before stroking a finger between them.

Wonwoo puts on his shoes. He opens the front door as quietly as he can.

Wonwoo takes a change of clothes from his suitcase in the trunk. He also gets the disposable litter pads and the litter tray so he can set it up somewhere.

There’s a mattress in the living room when he returns, with a pillow and a blanket in matching covers. Soonyoung’s nowhere to be seen. Dahaeng, though, is curled up in the middle of the plush bedding.

Wonwoo changes into his sleeping clothes and washes up at the kitchen sink. He turns off the lights and goes to bed.

Wonwoo wakes up to the sound of the front door opening.

It’s six in the morning, according to the big clock above the TV. Not bothering to find his glasses, he peers at the door from the living room. Someone comes in through the doorway with a basket in hand.

Wonwoo lies back down. He considers for a brief moment before sitting back up, carefully pushing the blanket off himself without disturbing Dahaeng.

The floor is warm beneath his feet. He pads to the kitchen, where he sees Soonyoung lining up eggs in a carton.

He sees him when the basket is empty. “Hi,” he says, cheeks and nose red from the cold outside.

Woonwoo yawns. “Good morning.”

Soonyoung puts the basket away. “Breakfast?”

“Sure.” Wonwoo rubs his eyes. “I can help.”

“You can sleep some more.” Soonyoung opens the fridge. He takes out a few boxes. “I’m heating up some leftovers.”

“Are you sure?”

Soonyoung turns around. “Unless you really want to help.”

Wonwoo goes back to bed, burrowing under the still-warm blankets. He drifts in and out of sleep, faintly disturbed by the humming of the microwave. 

He wakes up again to the click of cutleries. Soonyoung sets down a tray of food at the coffee table. The smell of beef broth is enough reason to leave the blanket.

There’s a big bowl of soup in the middle, surrounded by a few small dishes. They say their thanks and begin eating.

“So,” Soonyoung begins. “Where are you staying?”

Wonwoo freezes with a spoon in his hand. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m not staying anywhere.”

A hum. “Where _were_ you staying, then?”

His brain, defunct in the mornings, does jackshit to come up with an alternative to the truth.

Soonyoung seems to know that, too, waiting with a barely concealed smile as Wonwoo fixates on a speck of sesame on the small plate.

Wonwoo rubs his eyes. He takes another spoonful of soup after Soonyoung.

“An hour or two away,” he decides with answering, 

Soonyoung pouts, big enough that it reaches Wonwoo through his blurry vision. “That’s not fair. You know my address.” Soonyoung takes some seasoned spinach. “Where?”

Wonwoo gives up. “Bugan-myeon.”

“Ah,” Soonyoung says, melodic. “We both chose the middle of nowhere.”

Wonwoo nods. He sips on another spoonful of soup.

Soonyoung takes his silence as permission to go on. “And you left because?”

Wonwoo takes his time chewing the beef. He needs to think. 

It takes more time than he expected. He’s really going rusty.

“Just needed to,” he says, trying to shrug.

Soonyoung raises an eyebrow, mouth ticking up. “Someone on your tail?” 

Wonwoo looks down at his bowl of rice. He takes the first spoonful.

“Something like that,” he mumbles.

Technically, he isn’t lying. Someone’s always on their tail. It’s just a matter of urgency.

Except this time, it’s him chasing the tail that was offered to him.

Same difference.

Soonyoung leans back. His gaze stays on Wonwoo, like he’s waiting for him to falter. 

Good thing Wonwoo doesn’t have his glasses on—he doesn’t think he can meet Soonyoung’s eyes head on.

“Try the kimchi,” Soonyoung says at last, scooping rice from the corner he already dug out. “It’s Northern style. The halmeoni near the end of the street gave it to me.”

11 months and 27 days. Soonyoung says he should stay before he can secure a new place. Wonwoo takes up the offer and brings his suitcase in from the car. He returns the rental car and goes back in Soonyoung’s truck. His wad of cash for rent is denied.

“You can help out with the housework,” Soonyoung says. “And pay for half of the food.”

There’s a routine to this, Wonwoo’s happy to discover.

Soonyoung wakes up at six to collect morning eggs from the coop. After putting them away in cartons, he makes breakfast.

From early morning to afternoon, he tends to the patches of land that surround the house, checking on the cabbages. He then takes a break, often playing with Dahaeng or the chickens. If he has any errands to run, he goes afterwards.

Wonwoo does his share: scooping the litter, sweeping the floor, cleaning the windows, cooking dinner, doing the dishes, bringing the kitchen waste out to the compost machine. He knows how to be a passable housemate, but he wants to be a _good_ housemate, so he helps Soonyoung with the plants sometimes, lifting them up for repotting—however much he can do with zero knowledge.

It’s easy to get lost in hiding, in a routine.

Wonwoo doesn’t do what he’s supposed to do. Namely, trying to secure a new place. One week later, Soonyoung doesn’t mention a thing about it as he drives them both to the supermarket where they stock up on groceries.

Wonwoo pays in cash and helps carry them to the pickup truck.

Soonyoung rolls down the windows on the way back. He squints against the sun beating down on them through the windshield.

“It’s getting warm,” he says.

10 months 30 days. Wonwoo buys a bag of litter on their next run to the supermarket. He takes what he can get. Dahaeng is all too happy to use fresh litter again.

Soonyoung still hasn’t asked him to leave. 

One month is both too short and too long to know someone. He comes to know about Soonyoung’s mother’s secret kimchi recipe—add fresh shrimps; Soonyoung’s favourite song, SHINee’s “Please Don’t Go”; how many CDs he has: twenty; where he keeps his earthenware that holds pickled goods; his timetable for the compost machine; and who in this town does he trade eggs for what.

“I’m bringing some eggs to the halmeoni at the end of the street,” Soonyoung says. He pulls on a fleece jacket. “Do you want to come with?”

Wonwoo looks up from his book. He lifts Dahaeng off his lap and places her on the spot next to him. She walks away.

“Sure.” Wonwoo stands up. He reaches for his own parka.

It’s a ten minute drive. The destination is also a house in the middle of nowhere. There’s a dog at the front of the house.

“I’ll be quick,” Soonyoung says, turning off the ignition. He hops off the car and takes the eggs, carefully, before making his way to the door.

Wonwoo watches an old lady open the door. The lines on her face smile with her as she sees Soonyoung. She takes the eggs, disappears for a moment, before reappearing with a few bags in her hands.

Soonyoung bows profusely as she pushes them into his hands. Wonwoo unbuckles the seatbelt and gets out of the car.

He makes his way towards them, loud enough they both notice him. When he’s close enough, he bows. “Good afternoon.”

“Hello,” the old lady says. “Oh, are you the friend Soonyoung told me about?”

Soonyoung blinks. “Ah.” He throws Wonwoo a quick glance. “Right, yes.”

Wonwoo gives them a polite smile.

“You both are good-looking young men,” the old lady concludes. “As I was saying, my granddaughter will be back this summer. You should come over for dinner sometime. You’ve met her before, right?”

“Ah, yes.” Soonyoung laughs. “We met when you were with her at the rice shop.”

“Well, I keep telling her to come visit more often, but she says she can’t find the time. I said to her, _Jinyoung-ah, one meeting is barely enough to get to know someone. Time flies fast, you have to grab the opportunity before it slips past your fingers._ ”

Soonyoung keeps laughing, ducking his head. “I’m sure she’s busy with work.”

“What’s more important than finding someone to build a family with?”

“I’m sure you know, halmeonim, the generation has changed—”

Wonwoo reaches out to take one of the plastic bags. Soonyoung startles at the brush of their fingers. He tightens his grip on the handle.

“Do you need help?” Wonwoo offers. He tugs, and Soonyoung lets go. “I can load them onto the truck first.”

Soonyoung blinks, then nods. He passes him a few more bags. Wonwoo is surprised to find he can barely carry them with both hands.

“Thanks,” Soonyoung says with a different smile. “I’ll get the rest.”

Wonwoo nods. He says his goodbyes with a quick bow and walks back to the truck.

That evening, they use some of the spring vegetables from the halmeoni. Wonwoo struggles to name them without an encyclopaedia or the internet at his disposal.

“She said we could just blanch the dureup and dip it in vinegar and gochujang,” Soonyoung says, a strange root of a plant in his hand.

Wonwoo mixes the sauce as Soonyoung watches over the pot. The steam in the kitchen makes the ends of his hair curl, a curvature that reflects light from the ceiling.

The sauce is done. Wonwoo goes check on the radish soup that doubles as breakfast the next morning.

“She seems to like you a lot,” Wonwoo says.

Soonyoung snorts. “It’s just rare to see an adult below forty here.” He tastes the soup and adds some soy sauce. “Pretty sure her granddaughter has someone wherever she is.”

Wonwoo hums.

He watches the back of Soonyoung’s head, his neck, the line of his shoulder beneath the sweatshirt. The shell of his ears are pink from the heat of the kitchen. Something simmers at the pit of Wonwoo’s stomach, eroding a hole through him.

Wonwoo wants to bite him; cover him in teeth marks all over. He doesn’t know how Soonyoung would look with them, but he’s sure it’ll be good. He’ll make sure it looks good.

The pit in his stomach burns.

“Wonwoo?”

Wonwoo blinks. He sees Soonyoung’s concerned face, closer than he remembers. “Yeah?”

“The rice cooker just beeped,” Soonyoung says, slowly. He probably missed it the first time.

Wonwoo takes a deep breath. He takes the rice spatula out of the drawer and spoons them two bowls.

10 months 22 days. He accidentally learns what Soonyoung looks like buck naked. He hits his head on the doorframe as he backs out of the bathroom.

10 months 13 days. Wonwoo nearly brains himself on the slippery tiles when Soonyoung walks into him in the bathroom, mirror fogged and walls damp. 

It’s Wonwoo who should be surprised, but it’s Soonyoung who lets out a bone-shattering scream as he slams the door on his way out.

9 months 29 days. Soonyoung still hasn’t asked him to leave.

Wonwoo buys a new lock from the homeware store. He goes to the local library and prints out an installation tutorial. He takes out the old one and replaces it.

It’s for the better in the long run. 

9 months 15 days. They have a new lock now. Nobody accidentally runs into the other in various states of undress.

It doesn’t mean he’s safe, though.

Soonyoung sweats easily—one of the other things he relearns. Back when he trained with Seungcheol, he emptied two bottles of water after each session. Now, in the sun, hand on one handle of a heavy basket while Wonwoo holds the other, he sweats even more, shirt sticking to his back, closely enough that Wonwoo can make out the exact shape of his trapezius. 

They got a huge basketful of green plums from another family down the street. Wonwoo has half the heart to point out the purpose of those three years in hiding; they get fresh food from Soonyoung’s popularity.

They stand side by side in the kitchen. Soonyoung removes the stems and washes the plums under running water. Wonwoo dries each one of them with a paper towel.

“They said we need to wash a glass jar with hot water,” Soonyoung says, pulling another twig from the fruit.

“We can do it while the plum dries.” 

Wonwoo takes one from Soonyoung’s hand, dripping, before wrapping the paper towel around it.

“After that, we add the sugar,” he recounts the instructions. “And then, we stir every two to three days.” He pulls a twig off. “And _then_ , we wait a hundred days.”

Wonwoo hums. “Patience.”

“It’ll be winter by the time we can use it to make tea,” Soonyoung says with a pout. He hands Wonwoo another plum.

“It’s only June,” Wonwoo says. “It’ll be ready in September.”

Soonyoung looks at him, long enough that Wonwoo considers closing the tap. Just as he’s about to, Soonyoung turns back to the plums.

“I see,” he says, ripping the stem off.

9 months 10 days. Wonwoo wishes Soonyoung a happy birthday and makes him seaweed soup. 

Soonyoung’s eyes go wide when he sees the pot. He looks pleased, though a little apprehensive. “How did you know it’s my birthday?”

Ah, shit. He forgot it’s something he learnt when he was digging around.

Soonyoung crosses his arms. He knows, most definitely. It falls on Wonwoo to admit it for the sake of them both.

“I had to look you up back then,” he admits.

Soonyoung hums, tapping his fingers on his crossed arm. “Creep,” he sing-songs. He takes out the soup bowls and cutleries. “It’s unfair. You know everything about me.”

Wonwoo stirs the soup. He takes a small spoon and tastes it. “I don’t.”

“You know more about me than I do you.”

The soup is good. He reaches out a hand, and Soonyoung hands him a bowl.

“You can just ask if you wanna know,” Wonwoo says, ladelling soup into the bowl.

“And you’ll let me?”

Wonwoo looks up from the pot. Soonyoung watches him.

“If you ask,” he says, reaching out for the other bowl.

Soonyoung doesn’t ask. He makes a wish before blowing out the candle, stuck onto a small cupcake he bought from the supermarket.

“You’re lucky I don’t like cakes,” Soonyoung says. He splits the cupcake in half. “Did you know that too?”

“No,” Wonwoo says. He picks up a crumb. “It wasn’t on the computer.”

9 months 1 day. It’s morning. Wonwoo’s cleaning the litter when he hears a loud crash from the kitchen.

Dahaeng jumps and scrambles under the sofa. 

“Soonyoung?” Wonwoo calls out. He hears a few swear words, but no answer.

He puts down the litter scoop and walks closer. First, he sees a stray spoon on the floor, a few steps away from the kitchen. He picks it up and keeps walking.

“What happened—” he comes to a stop when he sees him, sitting on the floor. “Soonyoung?”

Soonyoung smiles up at him, but it looks more like a pained grimace. He’s supporting his right arm with the other hand.

“Hi,” he says, grunting a little. There are chopsticks and spoons all around. “I’ll clean it up later.”

Wonwoo gets onto the floor with him. “Are _you_ okay?”

“I’m fine,” Soonyoung says. He breaths deep, in and out, purposeful. “Help me up?”

Wonwoo finds purchase around his middle and gets him to his feet. Soonyoung can’t seem to straighten up. They make their way to the living room.

“What happened?”

“Dislocation.” Soonyoung sits down gingerly on the sofa. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Can you get me an ice pack?”

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” Wonwoo asks.

Because they can’t. Not without giving their names and social security number.

“It’s happened before.” Soonyoung curls up on himself. He grits out, “Can you _please_ get me an ice pack?”

Wonwoo goes back to the kitchen. He opens the fridge first, sticking his head in to calm his heart. 

He pulls a few breaths and shuts the door, opening the freezer compartment to find what he needs. 

On his way back, he grabs a towel and wraps it around the ice pack. 

Soonyoung’s leaning back now, frowning as he tests the motion of his right shoulder, gripping the socket tight with his other hand. He looks pale and sweaty. 

Wonwoo swallows. This is somehow more terrifying than the time Seungcheol busted a spleen.

“Here,” Wonwoo says. He sits on Soonyoung’s bad side.

Soonyoung opens his eyes. He takes the ice pack. “Thanks.”

“How did it happen?” Wonwoo asks.

“Nothing really,” Soonyoung mutters. He rolls up the short sleeve of the shirt and ices his shoulder. He closes his eyes again with a hiss. “I lifted my arm wrong. It happens.”

Wonwoo swallows again. He looks at Soonyoung’s profile, at the tired lines and clammy skin. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He pauses. “I know someone in Gyeongbuk. Or if you need anything from the pharmacy—”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Soonyoung begins, opening his eyes. “I did this a hundred times before, you don’t have to—”

Wonwoo leans in to kiss him.

He can taste the salt of cold sweat, the bitterness of a dry mouth. Wonwoo realises he’s shaking, somehow, when it should be the other way round. Soonyoung blows out a breath, sending a shiver that spreads over him like cracks on a sheet of thin ice, separating him from the fear under his feet.

Wonwoo pulls back, assessing. It’s a second before Soonyoung pulls some stuntman trick and pins him down on the sofa, his good arm across Wonwoo’s chest.

Heavy breath hits his face. Wonwoo stares up, heart thrashing despite being restrained. If he didn’t see the chopsticks and the spoons on the floor, he wouldn’t know Soonyoung’s favouring his left side now.

“What was that?” Soonyoung asks. When Wonwoo doesn’t answer, he pushes down harder, a hint of laughter beneath his voice. His eyes are on the wild side, incredulous. “Shit, Wonwoo. Do you get off on this?”

Wonwoo tests the give. It won’t budge.

He’s a tech guy, Wonwoo wants to remind Soonyoung. He’s just a tech guy who poses little to no physical threat. There’s no need to hold him down like this.

It’s not like he’ll run.

“Was that what you did?” Wonwoo asks back. Soonyoung’s face hovers above his, heavy breath hitting his skin. “When you brought me to the workshop.”

Soonyoung huffs out a laughter. The edge of his forearm grinds against his sternum, one last time, before he lifts off.

“I’m not a sadist,” he says, going back to nurse his bad shoulder at the other end of the sofa, as far from Wonwoo as possible.

Wonwoo stares at the ceiling. He takes a few breaths to calm himself.

He sighs.

“Neither am I.” He presses a palm against his ribs. The ache is back. Wonwoo lifts his head and asks, “Do you need painkillers?”

Soonyoung doesn’t look at him. “We’ve run out.”

“I’ll go get some.” Wonwoo sits up. He gets his feet on the floor. “Can I use your car?”

Soonyoung curls up tighter on himself. “Whatever you like.”

“Anything else you need?”

“No.”

Wonwoo takes the car key from the bowl on the shoe shelf. He slips on his sneakers.

“Don’t move, okay?” He bends down to do his laces. “Don’t even try to clean up the mess. I’ll be right back.”

The answer is a glare.

That’s good enough.

He wears a mask and makes a quick trip to town.

8 months 23 days. Wonwoo gets a kiss.

It could be for good behaviour. He’s been helping Soonyoung out more, keeping him from lifting heavy weights around the house and on the farm.

It could be out of remorse, like an animal licking the wounds on the hand that it maimed.

Wonwoo isn’t even doing anything. Not anything that deserves a peck on the corner of his mouth, at least. He’s marinating some spinach in the kitchen when Soonyoung taps him on the shoulder, prompting him to turn his head.

He doesn’t know what face he ends up making, but it must be stupid—Soonyoung looks all too satisfied with himself before bounding out of the door to chase after Dahaeng, who’s chasing after the chickens.

8 months 8 days. Wonwoo gets another kiss.

He doubts Soonyoung knows it’s his birthday today. Again, he’s not doing anything out of the ordinary.

He’s standing over the sink, rinsing the razor, when Soonyoung sneaks in to plant one on the shaven half of his face.

Wonwoo looks up into the mirror. He can see Soonyoung’s face, blurred at the edges thanks to his shortsightedness, brief as a flash before he’s left alone. 

“Dahaeng-ah,” Soonyoung calls in the hallway. He shakes the kibble container. A trilling meow answers him. He begins to coo. “Our Dahaengie, our baby—good morning, give me a hug.” A loud sniff. “Mmmm, your forehead smells so good.” A kissy sound. Dahaeng meows again. “Are you hungry?”

Wonwoo stares at himself in the mirror, eyes bugged out.

7 months 30 days. They drive to the halmeoni’s down the street.

Wonwoo gets out with Soonyoung this time. He spots an overfilled basket of tomatoes by the door.

“I have no idea how we’re supposed to finish them,” Soonyoung mutters as they approach the house. He bows when the door opens. “Good afternoon, halmeonim.”

“Oh, you’re here,” she says, opening the door wider. There’s a suitcase by the shoe shelf. “Jinyoung arrived just today. She’s out with her friends now—you missed her by a few minutes.”

“It’s okay.” Soonyoung smiles. He hands over the carton. “I’m just here to deliver the eggs. I’m sorry I forgot yesterday—”

“We just ran out today,” the grandma says. “Here’s a basket of tomatoes for you. Jinyoung helped pick a few this morning.”

“That’s a lot.” Soonyoung bows. “Thank you so much—”

“Young men like you should eat more,” the grandma chastises. “Anyway, Jinyoung will be here until tomorrow evening. Do you want to join us for dinner?”

“That’s—” Soonyoung laughs. “I wouldn’t want to intrude. You must have a lot to catch up.”

“Nonsense.” The grandma waves a hand. “I told Jinyoung to visit more often. I asked her, _is one meeting enough to know someone?”_

“Maybe next time,” Soonyoung says, smiling. He reaches out for the basket handle. “It seems Jinyoung-ssi’s quite pressed for time—”

“Exactly.” The grandma sighs. “What a shame. I prepared a few dishes.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Soonyoung says. “Thank you for the tomatoes.”

Wonwoo reaches for the other handle. He realises he’s on the right of the basket.

“Soonyoung,” he says. “You should come to my side.”

Soonyoung looks at him, still wearing his polite smile. “What?”

“You should take this side.” Wonwoo points the basket handle, then at his shoulder.

Soonyoung blinks. He nods and switches sides with Wonwoo.

“Have a good day, halmeonim.” Soonyoung bows one last time.

Slowly, they make their way back, careful not to spill any tomatoes. They load the basket onto the truck bed, cover it with a tarp, and strap it down.

Wonwoo starts the engine and gets them back home.

They have a hard time coming up with ways to use up the tomatoes.

“Tomato kimchi?” Soonyoung suggests as they haul the basket into the house. “Salad? Pasta sauce?”

Wonwoo opens the fridge and puts the tomatoes in the vegetable compartment. “There’s only two of us.”

Soonyoung joins in. A few tomatoes roll from his hands on top of the others. “If it rots, we can just put it in the compost machine.”

“That’ll be a lot of tomatoes.”

The vegetable compartment is full. Soonyoung looks at the basket, at the remaining tomatoes. 

“Right?” He sighs, hand on hip. “To be honest, I’ve never used a tomato in my life.”

“Halmeonim will be sad to know that,” Wonwoo says.

“Thank god I won’t be staying here forever.” Soonyoung laughs. “Damn. Imagine how she’ll react if I leave before meeting Jinyoung-ssi.”

Wonwoo takes a deep breath. He closes the fridge, carefully so he doesn’t make a sound.

He’s good at this: moving slowly, quietly. It’s his preferred state of being. He seldom feels the need to break things or slam doors.

Now, though, he kind of wants to.

The urge is new, but the root of it is familiar—the acidic burn in his stomach makes itself known again.

Wonwoo resolves to chop vegetables, cutting them up extra small to expend some of that energy. He empties them into the pot to make stew, then washes his hands. 

All is going well. He’s pleased to find a viable outlet for future reference.

“Hey.” Soonyoung taps him on the shoulder.

“Hm?” Wonwoo turns his head.

He’s caught in a warm press on his lips. It’s an ambush. 

It shouldn’t be, given how many times it’s happened before. 

Wonwoo should be smart enough to observe patterns, but he still closes his eyes reflexively as Soonyoung rises up, using Wonwoo’s shoulder to get onto his tip toes.

He kisses him on the mouth this time, as unpredictable as the next. When Wonwoo opens his eyes, Soonyoung’s back onto the flats of his feet, looking up at him expectantly.

Wonwoo takes a second to consider. The dormant burn in his stomach awakens, curling up his throat. He wipes his hands on his shirt and pushes back.

He bends down and pushes his lips against Soonyoung’s. The force of it is enough to walk Soonyoung backwards, all the way until he’s closed in against the fridge. It shocks a confused sound out of him.

He’s surprisingly easy to push around, Wonwoo finds. Maybe he’s permissive with Wonwoo, maybe he’s just _physically_ easy to push around: Wonwoo holds some height over him and, to his wonder, Soonyoung’s less broad than expected for someone with such a strong presence—in this small town, in the free port, in the workshop, in the gallery. 

Soonyoung has to tilt his head up to kiss back. The inside of his mouth is soft and warm, home to the breaths he lets out when Wonwoo breaks away, only to delve in again. 

Wonwoo turns Soonyoung’s head sideways with a hand on his jaw. He goes easily, pliant as Wonwoo kisses down his neck, his throat.

“Wonwoo,” he says, squeezing Wonwoo’s shoulder.

“Yes?” Wonwoo mumbles. 

No answer. He hooks a finger under the collar of Soonyoung’s T-shirt and pulls it aside.

Where his neck meets his shoulder is a gentle curvature. Wonwoo decides on a spot, opens his mouth and fits his jaw over it.

He bites down, hard enough that the muscle and tendon give under his teeth. 

Soonyoung sucks in a breath. “Wonwoo,” he murmurs, hand sliding into Wonwoo’s hair.

Wonwoo holds still for a few seconds, then relaxes his jaw. He pulls back, far enough to assess the situation.

There’s a ring of teeth marks, covered in spit, imprinted onto Soonyoung’s skin. He can count up to his first premolars.

Soonyoung blinks, waking up. He blinks again, slowly, focus travelling down to Wonwoo’s mouth before going back up to his eyes. Wonwoo waits for the recoil.

Instead, Soonyoung’s hand smooths down his nape. He pulls Wonwoo down with a sigh, touching their foreheads as his breaths even out. 

Wonwoo stiffens. If anything, this is not what he deserves. 

The bite mark glares back at him, red and tender. 

“I’m sorry,” he says at last.

Soonyoung hums. He shifts his fingers in his hair. “What for?”

“For—” Wonwoo takes a breath. “For pushing you.”

Soonyoung’s mouth quirks up. “But not for biting me?”

Wonwoo lowers his eyes. He mutters, “For biting you, too.”

They stay like this for a moment, braced against the fridge. Soonyoung strokes his scalp with a lightness that feels too good to be true.

If Soonyoung wants him to do something to show he’s truly sorry, Wonwoo would do it; anything he wants.

Anything he wants.

“It’s okay,” Soonyoung says, eyes softening with a smile. He leans up and kisses Wonwoo one last time, at the corner of his lips. “Let’s make dinner first.”

Wonwoo nods. The hand on his nape slides off. He goes back to the stove and adds two tablespoons of doenjang to the pot.

7 months 23 days. It’s the seventh consecutive day Wonwoo’s getting kisses.

He suspects it’s for show, yet there’s only an audience of two: him and Soonyoung.

If attention is what Soonyoung wants, then Wonwoo’s giving it to him, whenever he asks for it. Wonwoo has never stopped in the middle of putting away clean bowls to kiss someone. 

There’s a first, and it’s for Soonyoung.

Soonyoung also likes to choose the most inconvenient times, like when Wonwoo has to literally get a grip on his bladder before he pisses himself, or when he’s tying the plastic bag that holds Dahaeng’s droppings from the litter box, or when he accidentally rubbed his eyes after cutting chilli peppers.

Wonwoo tries to take it in a stride. He’s managed, so far—when Soonyoung kisses him, he kisses back, keeping the amount of teeth moderate. Nothing like that day in the kitchen. He doesn’t push, instead follows Soonyoung’s pace and adjusts accordingly.

He tries to be well-tempered. Fair. 

Soonyoung gave him what he wanted in Geneva, the way he wanted it. It’s only fair for him to return the favour.

7 months 22 days. Soonyoung makes him chase for it.

He kisses Wonwoo deep enough, only to pull away at the first hint of reciprocation.

Wonwoo leans in obediently. He offers his tongue. He chases, and chases, and chases. He doesn’t bite down, though, at least not hard enough to keep Soonyoung there.

Soonyoung pulls back at last, arms around Wonwoo’s shoulders, and looks smug with himself for being responsible for Wonwoo’s skewed glasses.

He looks up at Wonwoo. It seems like he’s waiting for something, so Wonwoo bends down to kiss him again.

As it ends, he still seems to be waiting for something.

7 months 17 days. Soonyoung begins to bite more in his kisses.

Wonwoo’s mouth ends up bleeding from it, and Soonyoung kisses him softly like he’s sorry. Wonwoo bites back, lightly, part retaliation and part warning. He takes caution—never as hard as that day in the kitchen.

If Soonyoung wants to play with him like a cat with its newest prey, so be it.

He still kisses him.

7 months 11 days. Soonyoung can’t keep up the pretense. He stops biting that hard during their kisses.

Wonwoo has foreseen it happening. In his experience, Soonyoung gravitates more towards tongue than teeth. This particularly slips out when he’s sleepy, like when they’re kissing on the sofa or in his bed.

He goes back to messy tongue and light nips that night, and stays that way ever since.

Wonwoo’s glad. Soonyoung seems to enjoy himself more like this.

7 months 1 day. It’s a rainy day. They go out briefly to spread a plastic cover over their plants. The rest of the day passes in a constant of wind howling and rain tapping against the windowpane. 

They have an early night. Wonwoo’s reading a paperback on the floor, back against the sofa. His mattress is laid out by his side. Soonyoung, at some point between the fifth and sixth chapter, decides to plop down beside him.

By the time Wonwoo reaches the ninth chapter, Soonyoung has laid his head in Wonwoo’s lap.

The weight of it is similar to Dahaeng’s. He read somewhere that it’s about 5kg in weight. It’s an unexpected realisation. Never in his life has he expected to draw comparisons between a human head and a cat; Soonyoung’s head and Dahaeng.

On second thought, they have more in common than first glance. They’re both fluffy. They both bring about the most intense urge to pet in Wonwoo. They’re both something Wonwoo would let stay. Wonwoo would rather die than to push either of them off his lap. 

Wonwoo’s focus drifts to the back of Soonyoung’s head. He’s facing away, eyes on the evening news, something about typhoons.

He studies him for a few seconds. He turns back to the book.

Six pages later, Soonyoung shifts. He reaches up. 

It gets Wonwoo’s attention. Wonwoo tilts the book to look past the pages. 

The hand touches his face, traces up his ear, down his jaw. Soonyoung’s eyes follow the path of his own fingers, the back of his knuckles brushing along Wonwoo’s throat, his chest, his ribs.

“You’ve bulked up,” Soonyoung notes, raising his hand to Wonwoo’s face again.

Wonwoo looks down at him. “Have I?”

Soonyoung hums. He trails his hand along the same path, down the side of his face, then up. 

Wonwoo puts down the book. He gives into the urge to pet his hair.

He closes his eyes when the touch ghosts over the bridge of his nose, moving towards his cheek. The sound of Soonyoung’s hand brushing against his ear obscures the constant tapping of rain. 

He loses track of how many repeats Soonyoung’s made after ten. It could be somewhere in the thirties.

The hand stops eventually.

Wonwoo opens his eyes. Soonyoung looks back at him, with one of Wonwoo’s hands carding through his hair. He blinks slowly, eyes half closed.

“I’m going to bed,” Soonyoung says.

“Okay,” Wonwoo says.

Soonyoung lies there for a few more moments. Wonwoo manages to run his fingers through his hair one last time before Soonyoung sits up.

He expects the kiss, leaning forward and closing his eyes. The soft press of lips fulfills it.

They pull away.

“Good night,” Soonyoung says.

Wonwoo opens his eyes. He says, “Good night.”

6 months 21 days. They end up in Soonyoung’s room.

The seduction didn’t take much to succeed. Soonyoung had guided Wonwoo’s hand under his shirt and that was it, as simple as Wonwoo is for him.

They’ve both showered, so there are no qualms. Soonyoung keeps the ceiling light off but bedside lamp on for the atmosphere. Wonwoo wants to get him naked.

“Why?” Soonyoung asks, face red in Wonwoo’s lap.

It’s not like they can’t have sex while clothed. They tried it before.

“I want to see you,” Wonwoo says.

Soonyoung huffs. “Sap.”

Wonwoo takes the jab, even when he wants to say it’s not true—Soonyoung was the one who said he’d miss Wonwoo when they fucked in the transit hotel—but in his silence Soonyoung takes off his T-shirt, his shorts, then his boxers. At last, he tugs at Wonwoo’s shirt.

Wonwoo doesn’t ask questions such as why. He raises his arms and lets Soonyoung pull it off.

Soonyoung returns to his lap. He leans over Wonwoo to reach the bedside drawer and grabs a bottle of lube. The half empty state of it hits him like a fucking tractor. Wonwoo bites the inside of his cheek as Soonyoung squeezes some onto his own fingers.

“Stop looking,” Soonyoung mumbles, reaching back.

“Why?”

Soonyoung glares. His hand moves behind him. His chest rises and falls with each breath. “You’re so dirty.”

Wonwoo grins. He smooths a hand up Soonyoung’s thigh and comes to a stop at the side of his hip. “Can’t help it.”

Wonwoo knows the moment he breaches himself. Soonyoung moves his hand slower, eyes sliding shut. His mouth opens before he bites it closed with teeth digging into his bottom lip. 

He also knows the moment he adds another finger. Soonyoung stills in his movements for a brief second before speeding up, like a lag. As he sucks in a sharp breath, the furrow between his brows deepens. 

Wonwoo watches against advice. It’s the first time he’s seeing pleasure play out on Soonyoung’s face, and he doesn’t want to look away.

Soonyoung notices. He ducks his head, surprisingly bashful. 

“Do you want help?” Wonwoo asks. He squeezes lube onto his fingers and reaches behind Soonyoung, joining his hand.

“You’re not thinking of helping,” Soonyoung mumbles. 

“I am,” Wonwoo says.

Soonyoung pulls out his fingers. He leans forward until their chests touch. “I went up to two.”

“I know.”

Wonwoo rubs the skin before dipping his fingers in. Soonyoung breathes out heavily against his neck, reaching down to stroke Wonwoo with a slick hand when Wonwoo begins to move.

At three, Soonyoung squirms, making a noise as soft as dripping wax. He grinds forward as Wonwoo plays with his prostate, rubbing himself over the side of Wonwoo’s hip. It repeats a few more times before it ends.

“It’s enough,” Soonyoung says before getting up on his knees. Wonwoo eases his fingers out. “Lie down.”

Wonwoo does. He rests his head on a pillow as Soonyoung settles over him. With a hand behind himself to steady Wonwoo, he sinks down.

His knees slide further apart on the sheets the lower he goes. He takes it all, clenching as he reaches the base, squeezing his eyes shut, holding himself still.

There’s sweat building at his temple. There’s sweat in a thin sheen all over him. Wonwoo strokes him in an attempt to distract him. He gets another soft sound.

He looks good taking cock, better than Wonwoo imagined.

Wonwoo tells him as much. He grinds up and says, “You look so fucking good.”

Soonyoung answers by pressing a hand on Wonwoo’s chest. He moves.

He rocks forward slowly, thigh tensing under Wonwoo’s hand. Wonwoo’s barely moving inside of him, but it seems to be enough, pressing against places that make him sigh shakily.

Soonyoung gazes down at him, daring Wonwoo to move. Wonwoo holds himself still as Soonyoung does as he pleases with him, gaining speed.

“Fuck,” Soonyoung mutters. He rises up on his knees to pull off before sitting back down. Wonwoo grips his thighs tighter as he does it again. Soonyoung grins when Wonwoo moans. “Feels good?”

“Yes,” Wonwoo says. He bites his lip as another sound threatens to claw out of him. 

Soonyoung’s hand on his chest begins to roam. Downwards, it travels to his abdomen, where Wonwoo’s tensed up to keep himself from moving. Soonyoung takes great interest smearing the mixture of lube and his own precome dotting along Wonwoo’s navel, fingers crossing the lines of twitching muscle. 

“Told you,” he says, satisfied. “You’ve bulked up.”

Wonwoo grinds his head back on the pillow. He heaves in deep breath, an attempt to steady himself before answering, “Thanks to you.”

Soonyoung tilts his head, sweaty and flushed. His hand makes its way upwards and finds one of Wonwoo’s nipples. He circles it with a slick finger. “Why?”

“Fed me well.” Wonwoo groans when Soonyoung sits back down. His abdomen clenches. “Made me carry groceries and vegetables.”

“I didn’t _make_ you.” Soonyoung laughs, twitching around him. “You just went and did it before I could even—” a breath “—think of doing it myself.”

His hand travels past Wonwoo’s chest and doesn’t stop until it reaches his neck. For a moment, Wonwoo thinks Soonyoung would choke him. He takes a deep breath and bares his neck, offering.

But it turns out Soonyoung just wants to hold on, calloused palm molding against the side of his neck. He strokes a thumb under Wonwoo’s adam apple, brushing over it as it bobs with a swallow.

Wonwoo wants to get his mouth on him, so he sits up. Soonyoung leans back to make space for him. He doesn’t get too far before Wonwoo winds an arm behind his back and licks a path up his sternum. He tastes salt.

“Ah,” Soonyoung gasps. He slows down as Wonwoo kisses across his chest, heaving with heavy breaths.

There’s a tremble under his skin, from fatigue or otherwise. Wonwoo holds him still and fits his mouth over a nipple, teasing it with his teeth and tongue. He brushes the pad of his thumb over the other, strokes it until it hardens.

Soonyoung shudders and squeezes around him. He cups a hand over the back of Wonwoo’s head and plants a kiss against his temple.

“Wonwoo,” he exhales into Wonwoo’s hair.

Wonwoo looks up. “Yes?”

Soonyoung ducks down to kiss him, mouth open, searching. He breaks away with a moan when Wonwoo rocks him in his lap.

“You’re gonna make me come,” Soonyoung mutters, pressing his hands to Wonwoo’s shoulders.

“That’s the point.” Wonwoo grinds up.

“Too fast,” Soonyoung says. He kisses Wonwoo again, slow with deliberation. “It’s too fast. We have time.”

They do. Wonwoo shifts carefully and tips Soonyoung over.

He lays Soonyoung down and gets up on his knees. Soonyoung blinks up at him, hair fanned out on the blanket at the foot of the bed. When Wonwoo pulls out halfway, his eyes haze over, sliding half mast. He bites his lip to muffle a moan when Wonwoo pushes back in.

“You don’t have to be quiet,” Wonwoo says. He pulls Soonyoung’s hips onto his lap. “There’s nobody else within one mile radius.”

“There could be,” Soonyoung answers. “Such as you. You came out of nowhere.” He clamps his thighs over Wonwoo’s sides, stopping any kind of movement. It’s a second too late when Wonwoo realises he’s trapped. “You came to find me.”

Wonwoo breathes out through his nose. The hint of frustration only serves to make Soonyoung smile, teeth glinting in the low lamp light.

“I did,” Wonwoo says. He punctuates it with a sharp grind. “So?”

Soonyoung doesn’t let off. He locks his ankles. “Why?”

“You sent me the pears.”

“They’d mean nothing if you hadn’t been looking.” Soonyoung rolls his hips up to meet him halfway. His grin sharpens when he gives the verdict, “You looked for me.”

“I did,” Wonwoo admits. This is common knowledge. He can feel Soonyoung’s heel digging into the small of his back. “Do we have to talk about this now?”

Soonyoung smiles. He winds both arms over Wonwoo’s shoulders, pulling him down. 

“Is there a better time?” His breath tickles Wonwoo’s ear. “At least you can’t run away now.”

Then he pulls back with a giggle.

Wonwoo turns his head. Their noses brush. “I’m not running away.”

“Let’s see.” His eyes shine with a playful glint. “Why did you look for me?”

Wonwoo huffs. He looks away. “You like hearing embarrassing stuff, don’t you?”

Soonyoung hums. “Maybe for you,” he says. “But not for me.”

Wonwoo tries to glare, but Soonyoung only sighs when Wonwoo grinds forward again. He raises his hands above his head, playing with the sheets, enjoying whatever this is.

All the while Wonwoo’s trapped.

It seems he won’t be satisfied until Wonwoo gives in. It’s a difficult debate to have with himself when he’s inside Soonyoung. 

“I wanted to,” Wonwoo says at last and straightens up. He grips a thigh over his hip. “Now can we get back to it?” 

Soonyoung relaxes, but not enough for Wonwoo to move freely. He asks, “When’s your birthday?”

Wonwoo breathes out through his nose again. “Seriously?”

“You said you’d let me ask if I wanna know,” Soonyoung whines with a pout. “You already know mine. It’s not fair.”

“July seventeenth,” Wonwoo says, thrusting shallowly.

“Oh.” Soonyoung’s face brightens. “Our birthdays are close.”

“They are.”

“Where’s your hometown?” Soonyoung asks, tilting his hip a little for the angle. 

Wonwoo tightens his grip on Soonyoung. He decides to roll with those questions as fast as possible, if that means they can get back to what they were doing. “Changwon.”

“Mm.” Soonyoung bites his lip, fluttering his eyelashes. “Gyeongsang boy.” Wonwoo snorts. “Do you like seafood?”

Wonwoo pulls him toward himself. “Hate it.”

“Isn’t there like a,” Soonyoung pauses with a gasp, thigh twitching. “A seafood festival there?”

“That’s why,” Wonwoo says.

“I see.” Soonyoung breathes out. “Do you have a sibling?”

“Are you sure you wanna talk about them when we’re—”

“I have a noona,” Soonyoung says first. “You?”

“A younger brother.”

“Ah.” Soonyoung tightens around him. “So you’re a hyung.” Wonwoo grunts. “Are you a good hyung?”

“No.”

“Did you guys fight?”

“All siblings do is fight.”

Soonyoung hums in agreement. “Yeah.” His breath hitches. “My noona was scary when we were younger.”

“Are we gonna keep talking about our families?”

“What’s your favourite ice cream flavour?”

Wonwoo deadpans, “I don’t even know yours.”

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” Soonyoung says, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “One time offer. Don’t miss out.”

What a good bargain. If Wonwoo were richer, he’d drop millions of US just for that.

“Vanilla ice cream bungeoppang,” Wonwoo says. He squeezes Soonyoung’s hip. “Your turn.”

“Strawberry,” Soonyoung answers in a beat. “How about your favourite colour?”

“Black,” Wonwoo says. “You?”

“Me too.” Soonyoung smiles. “Or blue. Or white, actually.”

“Usually favourite means one.”

Soonyoung pouts. “Don’t make me choose.”

“It’s your question, by the way,” Wonwoo reminds him. He braces a hand beside Soonyoung’s head and bends down to kiss him. Whatever Soonyoung was about to say melts on their tongues. “Anything else?”

Soonyoung levels him a thoughtful gaze. Wonwoo holds it, the best he can with the proximity. He can smell Soonyoung, doused in the scent of their laundry detergent and body wash. Wonwoo touches the tip of his nose behind Soonyoung’s ear and takes a sniff. Soonyoung giggles, squirming.

“That’s all I can think of,” Soonyoung says at last. He reaches up and holds Wonwoo close by the shoulders. “At least for now.”

His thighs relax. Wonwoo uses the newfound room to move the way he wants. Soonyoung raises his hips, shaking as he holds himself still for Wonwoo to fuck into. He’s doing surprisingly well, considering how long he’s held off.

“Why did you bite me?” Soonyoung asks, breathless.

Wonwoo doesn’t slow down. “I thought no more questions?”

Soonyoung holds his face between his hands, forcing Wonwoo to look at him. “Why did you bite me,” he repeats, voice wavering with each thrust. He squints when Wonwoo doesn’t answer. “Were you jealous?”

“No,” he answers.

“Really?”

“You didn’t even meet her.” 

Soonyoung’s mouth curls. He lets go and watches Wonwoo move above him, like he has the whole world served to him on a platter.

Which isn’t wrong: Wonwoo’s giving it all to him, head first, both mind and body. 

Somewhere, Wonwoo read that praying mantises are eaten by their mates after mating: head bitten off, devoured whole, skeleton and all. 

There’s no point in lying, no point in hiding; no point in running.

Wonwoo knew it the moment he packed everything he had in a suitcase. He even brought his cat along.

Soonyoung seems to believe him—he should—and traces a finger over the shell of Wonwoo’s ear. Suddenly, he seems shy, voice quiet as he asks, “Can you bite me again?”

Wonwoo’s stomach tightens at the prospect. He slows down. “You want me to?”

“Yes.” Soonyoung stretches out beneath him, lays himself open on the mattress, a reason. “Anywhere.”

As Wonwoo straightens up, Soonyoung bends his knee. He rests his leg on Wonwoo’s shoulder.

Wonwoo holds his ankle and rubs his thumb over the jut, feeling the bone underneath. He kisses it. The skin is so thin, he fears it might break, so he nips it lightly. It doesn’t even leave a trace. “Here?”

Soonyoung glares with a pout. “Harder.”

Wonwoo chuckles. He strokes Soonyoung’s calf and decides on a spot at the swell of it, right at the level of his mouth when he turns his head. 

Biting down comes natural. He does as told, digging his teeth in deeper. It results in a jolt.

“Fuck,” Soonyoung chokes out, eyes on the spot where Wonwoo’s mouth meets his skin. He clenches. “Yes, like that.”

This time, there’s a faint imprint of his front teeth. Wonwoo licks over the spot. “Okay?”

“Yes,” Soonyoung says. He fucks himself back slowly, rolling his hips. “More.”

Wonwoo takes him in. He really is made to take cock, body pulled taut over his frame, like a canvas waiting to be freed of its staples. 

Wonwoo wants to be the one to take him apart. He hopes that's not too selfish of him.

He smooths his hand down Soonyoung’s thigh. The flesh dips under his thumb when he presses it back. He picks a spot, a handbreadth above the inside of his knee. He bites down harder, keeps his jaw closed even as Soonyoung squirms.

The mark this time almost makes a full circle. Wonwoo glances at Soonyoung, finding his eyes glassy.

“More?” He asks.

“Yes,” Soonyoung breathes out. “Please.”

Wonwoo pulls out. He backs away enough to be able to reach the base of Soonyoung’s thigh with his mouth. The skin is sticky with sweat and lube and something else.

He bites down sharply. Soonyoung cries out, jumping from the sting of teeth. Wonwoo holds his thigh down to avoid being kneed in the face. For good measure, he bites once on the other thigh, just as hard.

He continues upwards. The side of his hip, bite. The inside of his wrist, a light nip. His forearm, bite. His bicep, bite. His shoulder; his chest; his stomach, just under the last rib.

Soonyoung tugs him up. When Wonwoo pushes back in, he arches, tension tangible in the line of his back. He traces a thumb along the flats of Wonwoo’s teeth, prompting him to bite down lightly. His mouth slackens, eyes following his own thumb as it presses down on Wonwoo’s bottom lip.

Wonwoo kisses it. Soonyoung tightens around him.

“Jeon Wonwoo,” Soonyoung murmurs. He runs a hand over the slope of his shoulder, his arm, his chest, his middle. He reaches between them and touches where they meet. He smiles with a shaky exhale, glancing up at Wonwoo. “What am I gonna do with you?”

Wonwoo looks down. He holds Soonyoung’s thighs by the back of his knees. He slides out slowly, pushes back a fraction, and repeats. The way his rim catches on the head of his cock is addicting.

Soonyoung twists in his grip, face red. He growls a little, “Quit playing.”

Wonwoo laughs, too charmed to do anything else.

“I’m not,” he breathes out, pushing back in all the way. He lets go of Soonyoung’s thighs and stoops down to kiss him. It seems to appease Soonyoung. “Just wanted to see you.”

“Dirty,” Soonyoung mumbles, eyes closed. He kisses back, but mostly keeps his mouth open to pant into Wonwoo’s. It’s too much work to coordinate that with the fucking. “You’re so fuckin’ dirty.”

“You told me,” Wonwoo reminds him.

He fucks in earnest now. He’ll give Soonyoung what he wants, the way he wants it, like he did Wonwoo in Geneva. 

It feels like Soonyoung’s closer, but it’s Wonwoo who comes first, blindsided by Soonyoung squeezing down. He stutters to a stop inside of him, gritting his teeth through a whimper as Soonyoung smiles up at him like he won.

It doesn’t last long, certainly not past when Wonwoo pulls out and fingers him.

“Fuck,” Soonyoung whispers, eyes widening. He grabs Wonwoo’s forearm between his thighs, looking down. He heaves in a breath. “Oh, fuck.”

Wonwoo curls his fingers. The tendons in his wrist shift with the light, rhythmic as he rubs over Soonyoung’s prostate. Soonyoung’s nails dig into his skin, not pulling or pushing, just holding on.

“Good?” Wonwoo asks.

Soonyoung nods, squeezing his eyes shut. Shaking, like a bent stake about to splinter.

Wonwoo bends down to take him in his mouth, hand working meanwhile. Soonyoung tastes different here, in a way that makes Wonwoo want to eat him whole. The head of his cock teases the back of his throat, making him swallow around him, but never swallowing down. Soonyoung’s thighs close around his head.

He’s wrenched up by a hand in his hair that holds them face to face. Soonyoung looks at him, eyes lost and afraid. He whines, throat tight.

“You can come,” Wonwoo says. He digs his fingertips over the same spot that makes Soonyoung shudder. Soonyoung’s nails dig into his forearm harder. “It’s okay.”

Soonyoung takes a breath, as if to say something. He ends up taking another, another, then another as he rocks against Wonwoo’s hand and comes all over himself.

Wonwoo fingers him through it. He looks at him for a few seconds, kisses his temple, and eases his fingers out.

When Wonwoo returns with wet wipes and two glasses of water, Soonyoung’s already propped up against the headboard. He watches Wonwoo cross the room, stepping between their clothes on the floor. He takes the water in Wonwoo’s right hand and downs it.

“Do you want some time alone?” Wonwoo asks, standing by the bed. He takes a sip from his own glass. “I can go out.”

Soonyoung puts down the empty glass on the bedside table. He regards Wonwoo for a few moments, then shakes his head.

Wonwoo stays. He brings his own blanket from the living room and pulls it over the both of them. 

6 months 7 days. Soonyoung keeps checking on the jar of plums. He counts down to the day when it’ll be 100 days old. As of today, the count is 2.

“Do you think two days really make a difference?” Soonyoung asks as he stirs the bottom of the mixture with a long spoon.

“No,” Wonwoo says. “It’s only two percent.”

Despite Wonwoo’s answer, he still screws the lid back on without tasting anything.

“Maybe it really takes a hundred days,” he says, pushing the jar back to the dark corner of the cupboard.

6 months 5 days. The first thing Soonyoung does when he wakes up is to check the jar of plums. He makes them two cups of cold tea with the extract. 

Wonwoo joins him in the kitchen. The weather’s cooling down, as it always does when Chuseok is near. Pears are in season. There’s an abundance of them in the kitchen.

They will always remind him of Soonyoung. If he sees a bruised pear in the grocery shop, he’ll think of Soonyoung. If he sees the word “pear” on the nutritional label of marinades in the supermarket, he’ll think of Soonyoung. If he so much as hears “boat” or “stomach” or something as common as “hungry”, the syllables will remind him of pears, and he’ll remember Soonyoung.

When he sees Soonyoung biting down on a slice, all he can think is Soonyoung.

Soonyoung cocks his head when he catches him staring. He holds out a slice, and Wonwoo leans close to bite down.

He hopes Soonyoung doesn’t know.

5 months 16 days. The mattress in the living room has become Dahaeng’s bed. It speaks volumes of Wonwoo’s neglect.

Of the mattress, of course. Not the cat.

Wonwoo’s been sleeping in Soonyoung’s bed since a week ago. They don’t sleep with each other every day, which is what used to result in them sharing a bed.

“It’s getting cold,” Soonyoung had said after finding frost on the leaves one morning. “You’re gonna freeze on the floor.”

It was an invitation that Wonwoo gladly took.

He is indeed cold, but that’s the natural state of his being. Soonyoung seems more worried than he is with his cold hands and cold feet. He seeks to wrap him in blankets and sometimes wrap _himself_ around Wonwoo.

It’s not a good thing to get used to.

Wonwoo managed alright without such treatment throughout his life. He can’t imagine the day when he’ll feel colder again.

5 months 3 days. It’s been a consistent two weeks that they find frost on leaves in the morning. They cover the plants with a tunnel made of tarp to shield them from cold winds.

After reading a book on keeping chickens, Wonwoo kindly informs Soonyoung that putting jackets on them may cause more harm than good, since chickens keep themselves warm by fluffing out their feathers. They spend the morning in the homeware store looking for insulation materials to modify the coop. 

The afternoon sees them trying to fit the styrofoam boards in a way that the chickens can’t peck at them. They clean the coop of its bedding and poop and lay a new one with straw.

By the time they get back inside the house, it’s dark outside. They do the bare minimum, heating up leftover rice to eat with side dishes.

Soonyoung falls asleep with his head on Wonwoo’s lap as he watches the weather report. 

A cold front is arriving.

4 months 7 days. Soonyoung comes back from a trip in town with forty heads of cabbage at the back of his truck. Wonwoo has to help unload them in three trips.

“My mum made forty heads of cabbage for a family of four,” Wonwoo says, cutting the cabbage the size of his head into half. 

“You never want to run out,” Soonyoung answers. He lines the cabbage up in a big bucket and soaks them in salt water. “Can you imagine a day without kimchi?”

They salt and brine the cabbages a few times. It’s another day before the leaves are soaked through and soft enough to be seasoned. While the cabbages dry in yet another big bucket, they mix together the spices and sauces according to Soonyoung’s secret recipe from his mum. 

It’s not so secret anymore, since Wonwoo’s the one doing the multiplication for forty heads of cabbage.

“We use rice powder only,” Wonwoo says as they mix the pumpkin broth in.

“Pumpkin broth adds to the sweetness,” Soonyoung explains. He looks up at Wonwoo while sticking his gloved hands in the mixture. “I’ve been wanting to ask—did you like the kimchi?”

Wonwoo helps him pull his sleeves up. “Yes.”

“How did you find it?”

“A bit sweet,” Wonwoo says. He pours in another bowl of broth. “A bit milder than ours. But not bland.”

“That reminds me.”

“Yes?”

“I’m curious,” Soonyoung says. “About what your family’s kimchi tastes like.”

The ingredients are well mixed. Wonwoo brings another bowl of broth to the bucket.

“Saltier.”

Soonyoung snorts. “Thank you.” He wrinkles his nose at him. “Totally didn’t know that.”

“We use salted anchovies,” Wonwoo says. “And a lot more chilli flakes.”

“Really? Do you have the recipe?”

“No,” Wonwoo says. He looks up and sees Soonyoung pouting, probably without realising himself. “I can ask.”

Soonyoung’s face lights up. “I wanna try.”

“I can bring some back the next time I visit.”

He gets a kiss on his cheek, narrowly avoiding getting red paste on his face. Soonyoung goes back to stirring the mixture with a pleased hum.

Wonwoo hasn’t visited his family in years. Maybe it’s a sign.

3 months 13 days. They catch the first snow.

Wonwoo doesn’t like leaving the house much these days, but for the snow he bundles up and goes out with Soonyoung.

It’s a quiet night. He remembers the snow in Seoul to reflect lights that shine from everywhere. Here, in Mungyeong, night falls without much to save it from complete darkness. A few street lights stand on the deserted street the house is on, few and far between enough for cars, if any. Wonwoo doesn’t even register the snow until it lands on his face.

“We can go in if you’re cold,” Soonyoung says, huddling up against him. “We can watch the snow from inside.”

Wonwoo looks down. He can barely make out Soonyoung’s face in the dimness. There’s snow in his hair, and Wonwoo brushes it away before pulling the hood of his parka over his head.

It’s difficult not to kiss him. The air is cold, and Soonyoung is warm. Wonwoo is cold, so he seeks him out. His face, dry and frozen from the wind, thaws with Soonyoung’s breath as he closes in to feel his lips. When he pulls away, their exhales rise up in fogs of white between them.

“We can stay for a while,” Wonwoo says.

Soonyoung smiles at him, as subtle as the touch of falling snow. He turns to face the fields, dark and rolling away from them.

Wonwoo looks in the same direction.

It’s a good place. He’d like to die here.

3 months 9 days. They go out to town and eat at one of the few restaurants. Snow is falling around them, accumulating on trees and roofs in a blanket of softness. They cover the windshield with a tarp before leaving the truck.

“The kimchi jjim here is delicious,” Soonyoung tells him after placing their order. He shrugs off his parka. “You’ll know when it arrives. The aged kimchi is phenomenal.”

The weather report plays on the TV above the beverage fridge. It talks of snow, of tourism and the impending Christmas. They stay so long, ordering their fifth bowl of rice to go with the sauce, that the hourly news recap has ended.

“I’m glad I don’t know how to make it,” Wonwoo says. “This dish must’ve been invented by rice vendors.”

Soonyoung grins around his spoon. “Told you,” he says, taking the jug to refill their cups. “Eat more.”

Another cycle of the news report begins. It starts with an opening song, a series of news headings, and a greeting.

There’s water spilling over the table. Wonwoo jumps when it drips off the edge onto his jeans. He fumbles for the napkins.

“Soonyoung,” he says. No response. He repeats, “Soonyoung.”

Soonyoung blinks. His eyes widen as he takes in the water he’s spilled. “Shit.” He pulls back. “I’m sorry, do we have—”

“Yes,” Wonwoo takes the jug from his hand and sets it aside. “Can you get a rag? Or more napkins?”

“Wait a second.” He gets up from his seat and finds the restaurant owner, the only person waiting the whole place. He bows profusely and comes back with a cloth. “I’m sorry.”

They clean up the mess under a minute and settle back down. Wonwoo goes back to eating, but Soonyoung has stopped, eyes fixated on an invisible spot between himself and the table.

Wonwoo clears the last bowl of rice. He asks for the bill and pays it. In the end, he has to nudge his ankle against Soonyoung’s to get his attention.

Soonyoung comes back to earth with a startle. He blinks his eyes clear, refocusing on something more tangible, such as Wonwoo.

“Should we go back?” Wonwoo prompts.

They stay silent for a few seconds. Meanwhile, the news dwindles from the TV speakers.

Soonyoung nods. He puts his parka back on.

The drive back home is quiet. It could be the snow—Wonwoo finds that it absorbs sound from the ambience, including himself.

They thump their boots on the doormat before stepping past the threshold. It’s warm inside, both the air and the floorboards. They close the door quickly to trap in the heat and take off their boots, leaving them in the entryway.

Before Wonwoo can take off his winter coat, Soonyoung kisses him. He pushes him against the wall and kisses him, hand reaching past his coat to hold Wonwoo by the side. It’s not long before he begins making his way down. 

It’s strangely reminiscent of the day in Geneva.

“Soonyoung,” Wonwoo says, leaning back against the wall. He helps undo his jeans when Soonyoung’s shaking hands slip on the button. “I haven’t showered.”

Soonyoung shakes his head before opening his mouth. Wonwoo isn’t even hard, but that can be easily changed when Soonyoung’s mouth is as warm as it is, taking him all in, deeper than he normally does.

It gets messy fast. There are tears sliding down Soonyoung’s cheeks, which Wonwoo’s convinced are physiological when Soonyoung gags yet again. Spit coats his hand and his chin. Wonwoo brushes his hair back to look at his face.

Soonyoung peers up at him, waiting.

“You’re so good,” Wonwoo tells him, running his fingers through his hair, meaning it more than his words. “So good for me. You take me so well.”

Soonyoung closes his eyes with a whine, another tear slipping down his cheek. He breathes out through his nose and swallows.

Wonwoo comes down his throat, careful not to grip his hair too hard. When Soonyoung stands up, stumbling with the first step, he wraps an arm around him.

“Fuck.” Soonyoung grabs onto Wonwoo. “Pins and needles.”

Wonwoo laughs. He strokes Soonyoung, then kneels down to suck him off when he’s steady enough to stand on his own. He takes him in as deep as he can, feeling the need to reciprocate. Wonwoo tilts his head up.

Soonyoung bites his lip, eyes red as he looks down at him, threading a hand through Wonwoo’s hair. He tips his head back, throws an arm over his eyes before he comes.

He doesn’t stop shaking, not even when they go to bed.

2 months 25 days. They spend their first new year together. There isn’t much to do when most shops are closed. After checking on the chickens and feeding Dahaeng, they go back to bed.

Soonyoung’s always seeking him out lately, more so than ever since that day in the restaurant. He takes and takes and takes, hands and mouth and teeth, like Wonwoo is infinite but his own time is not. 

Neither of them are. It’s only a matter of which runs out first.

Wonwoo doesn’t think he’ll run out soon when it comes to Soonyoung. So when he’s asked, he gives.

1 month 11 days. Soonyoung comes back from the vet with one of his chickens in Dahaeng’s carrier bag. There’s chicken shit in it. Wonwoo plans to change it.

“Here.” Soonyoung tosses a pack of chocolate onto the kitchen counter, right next to the vegetables he’s chopping.

Wonwoo stares at it for a second. He looks up. “What’s this?”

“Chocolate,” Soonyoung says. He unzips the carrier bag and frees the chicken.

“I know.” Wonwoo puts down the knife. “Why?”

Soonyoung glares at him. There’s red curling around his ears.

“Happy Valentine’s, I guess,” he mutters, pulling off his beanie and coat. “They were on discount. I thought you liked them.”

Then he makes his way down the hallway, leaving Wonwoo alone in the kitchen.

Soonyoung sulks the rest of the day. Wonwoo realises he’s fucked up with his reaction.

He can’t help it. The chocolate came out of nowhere, not to mention the “Happy Valentine’s” when he has onion juices all over his hands. 

At night, he approaches Soonyoung, who’s curled up in the dark. He joins him under the blanket and drapes himself over him, kissing from the back of his neck downwards.

“What are you doing?” Soonyoung asks, glaring over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Wonwoo says. “For today.” He marks it with a kiss at the end of his spine, midway between the two dimples. “I liked the chocolates.”

Soonyoung huffs. He turns back to rest his head on folded arms. “You don’t have to do this.”

Wonwoo slides down and pulls off his sweats. He dips lower. “Want you to feel good,” he mumbles against the flesh. He nips at the exposed skin on the back of his thigh. When Soonyoung shifts under him, he says, “Just wanna make you feel good.”

11 days. Wonwoo brings back a small box.

Neither of them seem to be a big fan of sweet things. Wonwoo spent a long time at the supermarket comparing brands and flavours. At last, he went with dark chocolate truffles.

Soonyoung looks away from the TV, Dahaeng in his lap. He eyes the small box in his hand, then Wonwoo. “What’s this?”

“Chocolate,” Wonwoo says. He sits down next to him. “Happy White Day.”

Soonyoung raises an eyebrow. He shakes the small box, turns it over, and inspect the labels. A slow smile washes over his face.

“Is this on discount?” He asks, shaking the box again.

“No.” Wonwoo takes the box back and opens it for him. There are precisely nine truffles sitting in fancy packaging, golden leaves flattened and deformed. “They’re quite expensive, actually.”

Soonyoung’s eyes flit up from the box. There’s a brightness in his eyes, or it could be the reflection from flecks of gold.

He pecks Wonwoo on the corner of his mouth. “Yah, Jeon Wonwoo,” he teases and clicks his tongue, taking a truffle out of the box. “You’re good at this.”

Wonwoo snorts. It’s his first time giving chocolate.

1 day. Wonwoo rolls over in his sleep. His arm lands on nothing.

He blinks up at the ceiling in the dark. Soonyoung could’ve gone to the toilet. Wonwoo waits for him to return so he can leech off his warmth again. He closes his eyes.

When he opens his eyes again, Soonyoung’s still not back.

Time passes differently at the peripheries of sleep, but Wonwoo’s sure it’s been more than a few minutes. He pats around for some clothes and finds them bunched up at the end of the bed. Not caring whose he’s putting on, he gets out once he’s adequately covered.

He cracks open the door. Bathroom lights are off, living room lights are on. Wonwoo squints as he walks out, doing the best he can with blurry vision. He finds a figure that looks like Soonyoung, with Dahaeng on his lap, sitting on the floor at the entryway, back against the door. 

Everything’s blurry without glasses. Wonwoo walks closer.

A few steps away, Soonyoung says, “It’s tomorrow.”

Wonwoo stops. It takes a few seconds for his head to clear of sleep, then to register what tomorrow means. 

Ah. So he isn’t the only one who’s been counting.

Wonwoo yawns into his fist. “It is.”

He can hear Dahaeng purring. 

“Are you leaving?”

Wonwoo blinks. “What?”

A pause. The floorboard is warm beneath his feet. As Wonwoo tries to decipher the silence, he realises he’s wearing an amalgamation of their clothing: Soonyoung’s hoodie, his sleep pants. Underneath, he’s wearing marks Soonyoung’s left behind before he’s wearing his own skin.

“You can’t kick me out this time,” Soonyoung begins, voice strained. He swallows with an audible click. “This is my house.”

Wonwoo blinks harder. He runs a hand through his hair. He regrets not wearing his glasses. “What?”

That seems to be the breaking point. Soonyoung heaves in a breath, which strangely sounds like a sob. It’s only then Wonwoo realises.

“If you leave,” Soonyoung says, voice clogged and wet. He sniffles. “Can you please not take Dahaengie away?”

Wonwoo looks around himself, more frantic than he’s ever found himself in any situation. Never in his life was he equipped to deal with others crying. He spots a box of tissues on the coffee table and makes a dive for it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Wonwoo says, just short of skidding to a stop as he joins Soonyoung on the floor. Upon closer look, there are tears tracking down the apples of his cheeks, down his chin, dripping onto his shirt. Wonwoo pulls out a tissue and wipes it over Soonyoung’s face. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Soonyoung asks, voice wavering.

“I’m not,” Wonwoo says. He offers him another tissue. Dahaeng startles when Soonyoung blows his nose. Damn this cat. “Where did you get the idea?”

“Last time.” Soonyoung takes in a shuddering breath. He bunches up the tissue in a fist. “In Geneva.”

Wonwoo waits for him to continue. He doesn’t. 

That’s fair. Both of them should be able to understand.

“That’s ‘cause we didn’t have time,” Wonwoo says. He sits, back against the door next to Soonyoung. Dahaeng peers up at him with round, curious eyes. Wonwoo takes the crumpled tissue from Soonyoung’s grip. He hesitates, then replaces the empty space with his own hand. “Do you have any plans?”

Soonyoung sniffles. Wonwoo pulls another tissue with his free hand and dabs it under Soonyoung’s eyes.

“Teach taekwondo,” Soonyoung mumbles. A sniffle. “Maybe.”

“You know taekwondo?”

“I was gonna enter the national team.”

Wonwoo nods. That didn’t show up on his records. 

He rubs his thumb over Soonyoung’s first knuckle. “Why didn’t you?”

“Didn’t wanna have my head shaved,” Soonyoung says. He sniffles again with a glare. “I tried it once. It was awful.”

Wonwoo laughs. He reaches for another tissue. Dahaeng leaps off this time when Soonyoung blows his nose.

“That’s good,” Wonwoo says, taking the soiled tissue away. “You have a plan.”

Soonyoung wrinkles his nose. He blinks at Wonwoo, lashes damp and clumping together. “What about you?” He sniffles. “Going back to your team?”

Wonwoo holds his gaze for a moment. He wants to kiss him.

Instead, he says, “Maybe.” He looks down at their hands. “I haven’t used a computer in two years. A lot can change.”

Soonyoung sniffles. “Worst case?”

“IT support in banking,” Wonwoo says. “Most companies still operate on old systems.”

They don’t speak after that. Across the room, Dahaeng scratches in the litter box. It lasts quite a while before she skips out, light in her steps.

“If you leave,” Soonyoung begins. He takes a deep breath. It doesn’t stop his voice from catching. “Can you please not bring Dahaengie away?”

Wonwoo turns his head towards him. “I won’t.” He adds, “And I’m not leaving.”

Soonyoung looks up. His eyes are brimming with red. “Never?”

“Soonyoung-ah,” Wonwoo sighs. He tries to find words that aren’t as sharp at the edges. They’ve never come easy to him. “We can’t talk in absolutes.”

Soonyoung stares hard at him. 

That seems to be what sets him off again. With a sob, tears begin to spill anew. Soonyoung’s face scrunches up with an intensity Wonwoo doesn’t quite understand. He doesn’t, but he wants to.

With a sigh, he drops the crumpled tissues on the floor. He cups Soonyoung’s cheek and lifts his face. The wetness of tears slides under his fingers, and Soonyoung blinks up at him before squeezing his eyes shut. 

Wonwoo kisses him, pressing himself into it. He can taste the salt when he licks at Soonyoung’s lips, like it’s a wound he left behind. Soonyoung’s breath trembles as he pushes back. 

But there are no wounds, no nothing. 

“God.” Soonyoung laughs wetly, resting his forehead against Wonwoo’s. His lips twist into a smile as his tears keep falling. “You definitely get off on this.”

Wonwoo lowers his gaze. They’re still on the floor, in a heap, with Soonyoung evidently feeling like shit. This isn’t something he should admit at this time point. 

He looks up.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, wiping a thumb under Soonyoung’s eyes. They look at each other. With a quiet voice, he admits, “It never happened with anyone else.”

Soonyoung stares at him. A few seconds later, a fresh stream of tears begin to fall. He takes in a shuddering breath and buries his face in Wonwoo’s shoulder.

They stay on the floor. 

Wonwoo holds him. He pats the back of his head through it, slowly, until Soonyoung stops crying.

Even then, he cradles Soonyoung’s head against his shoulder. He isn’t leaving.

****

##  **Stolen Max Ernst rescued in gallery’s secret deal**

Updated: 2 days ago

A painting by Max Ernst, a key figure of German Dada and surrealism, has been returned to the Chase Gallery in London after it was stolen from an exhibition in the USA.

“Nature at Dusk” was stolen four years ago from a New York gallery, where it was on loan. Six other paintings, including works by Oskar Moll, have still not been recovered. 

Just this year a German lawyer, Hans Dieter, who is said to have clients with information on the painting, contacted the gallery. His letter said: “I am in direct contact with those who are now in possession of the painting. These people are suspicious of the recovery operation. They fear that it may be used to convict them. They therefore expect a payment in advance to establish a basis of trust.” 

Mr Dieter requested a 10% down payment of the total price of £3.5m. The gallery paid the sum, drawing it from the £27m insurance for the paintings. For £3.5m, the London gallery had bought back the ownership of the Max Ernst painting.

There remains controversy over what became of the £3.5m. The gallery, at the time of announcing the reacquisition of the painting, rejected claims that the money was paid for ransom. “[The money] was used to obtain information,” said Robert Dickinson, director of the Chase Gallery. “I don’t think we have paid the thieves in any way.”

##  **Works valued over €500 million stolen from the Musée des Beaux Arts de la Ville de Paris**

Updated: 10 hours ago

Five paintings, valued over €500 million ($710 million) in total, were stolen from the Musée des Beaux Arts de la Ville de Paris overnight on Wednesday. The works were _The Organist_ by Pablo Picasso, _L’Atelier Bleu_ by Henri Matisse, _Violin and Candelabra_ by Georges Braque, _L’Homme à l'Éventail_ , and _Nature Morte aux Poires_ by Fernand Léger.

The theft was discovered by employees when the museum opened on Thursday morning. The museum has been cordoned off by the police for investigation of the theft. 

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